


Young Hearts

by DarkFairytale



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Adopted Children, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Booker | Sebastien le Livre Whump, Broken Bones, Burns, Canon Temporary Character Death, Canon-Typical Violence, Car Accidents, Dad Booker, Depression, Drowning, F/F, Family, Family Feels, Fire, Found Family, Gun Violence, Harm to Children, Historical References, Homelessness, Hostage Situations, Hurt Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani, Hurt Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Immortal Husbands Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Immortal family, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani Whump, Kid Fic, Kid Joe, Kid Nicky, M/M, Mortal Joe, Mortal Nicky, Nicky | Nicolò di Genova Whump, Nightmares, Parenthood, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prompt Fill, Team as Family, Temporary Character Death, Underage Drinking, Underage Driving, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:20:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 76,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26783554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkFairytale/pseuds/DarkFairytale
Summary: “You cannot keep them, Sebastien.”“Keep them?!” Sebastien hissed, glancing at the boys, “You talk like they would be pets, Quynh.”“And you talk like they would be sons,” Quynh countered harshly, and Sebastien tried to remember that she was only being cruel to be kind, even as his heart instantly recoiled at her suggestion that he was trying to replace his dead sons with Joe and Nicolò.AU: The team raises Joe and Nicky from childhood.
Relationships: Andy | Andromache of Scythia/Quynh | Noriko, Booker | Sebastien le Livre & Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani, Booker | Sebastien le Livre & Nicky | Nicolo di Genova, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 254
Kudos: 710





	1. 1979 (Part 1)

**Author's Note:**

> So I posted a prompt on the kinkmeme wanting to see a scenario in which the team find Joe and Nicky as mortal children and raise them. The prompt was pretty specific and I didn't think anyone would fill it so started my own. I was surprised and absolutely blessed by the fill of BeesKnees' beautiful fic 'watch me beg to never let you go' which is just glorious and if you haven't read it already please go and do it!
> 
> I ummed and ahhed over posting Chapter 1 - but decided to see what people thought since I have taken the concept in a different direction. So thank you to everyone who seemed keen to read more of this after the first chapter!
> 
> Tags will be added as the fic continues but let me know if there are any that I have missed and you think need adding. Please check the tags for all warnings. Mature rating will come (lmao) in later chapters. Also, a disclaimer: I have not been to the vast majority of locations featured in this fic, and am not fluent in any of the languages but English, so am using good ol' research to help me out. Not beta read so any glaring typos/errors please let me know.

24th July 1979  
Nice, France

Sebastien was tired. It had been a long year; a long year to add to the one hundred and sixty six long years that had come before it.

One hundred and sixty seven years. _Merde._ And that was just the number of years that Sebastien had been immortal. He had been in existence - not so much alive, but in existence - for two hundred and nine. Any mortal human would not be able to fathom living so long; existing in three different centuries. Sebastien had been born in the 1700s and seen in the 1800s as a mortal man with a wife and children. He had seen in the 1900s alone but for the only other two immortals in the whole world besides him.

He didn’t know if he could stand seeing in the 2000s. Not just an added century but a new millennium. Fuck. A new milestone to add to the list of immortal possibilities while knowing that the next millennium might just be the _first_ of many millennia that Sebastien might experience…

Sebastien tipped his head back and took a healthy gulp of wine.

Wine, because he was back in France, and nobody knew wine like the French. Andromache and Quynh might disagree, but Sebastien knew his people and his people knew wine. Hundreds of years may have passed, but Sebastien could always rely on French wine to help him forget.

It was just that one hundred and sixty seven years provided a lot of things to try and forget.

There had been good times. Of course there had. Andromache and Quynh were his immortal sisters; memories of summer evenings with them, full of food and drink and laughter, were some of his fondest. But his sisters were the only people he could talk to about the burdens of immortality, and although he knew that they knew he struggled and grieved still - would grieve forever - for his family, he still did not turn to them as much as maybe he should, because how could he? How could he complain at how long a hundred and sixty seven years felt when to Andromache, that amount of time was but a tiny mark on her timeline, and how could he complain how long a hundred and sixty seven years felt when Quynh had spent longer than that drowning repeatedly in an iron maiden under the sea?

Sebastien knew they considered him a part of their family, but he was young to them, new, a third person tacked on to millennia of just the two of them. He sometimes wondered if his predecessor had ever felt the same; Lykon, the only immortal to have ever died and therefore the only comfort Sebastien had that one day his own immortality might finally end.

Since Quynh had joined Andromache in immortality, Andromache and Quynh had always had each other. Sometimes it felt that all Sebastien had as his closest lifelong companion was his grief.

Sebastien’s wife had died almost two hundred years ago, and after her their boys had followed one by one. This year was the hundred and thirtieth since the death of the last, his youngest son Jean-Pierre. The grief and the guilt Sebastien carried for not being able to share his immortality - or give it - to save his family had not lessened over time. He carried it with him always. He wasn’t sure how well he hid it from Andromache and Quynh.

Sebastien made his leisurely way through the narrow streets of Nice’s Old Town towards the safe house; a small two bedroomed property that Sebastien had bought for himself and The Old Guard to use some time during the 19th century. He had seen it rebuilt since then several times, the last being after the Second World War.

War. Sebastien had experienced decades of it since he had first died trying to desert Napoleon’s army. Ironic, really, that The Old Guard were warriors but Sebastien had first died trying to desert from the life. And ironic also, that it ended up being that the immortal years spent at war and on missions were the ones that Sebastien remembered the most clearly. He was more sober for them. He could throw himself into the work, into the fight, into the research, into doing _good_. When The Old Guard worked, Sebastien could focus on helping other people, and it meant that he didn’t have to focus on how he could and would not help himself. Sebastien needed the jobs; he needed to know he was saving lives, because it was the downtime - the years where Andromache decided they needed a break from the weight and the cruelties of the world - that Sebastien struggled with the most. He had his literature to keep him company, and that had been one of the few joys of Sebastien’s long life besides his immortal sisters; reading generation upon generation of classic literature. But otherwise he had his flask and his bottles and himself to keep him company. And he was his own worst enemy.

He had a feeling Andromache and Quynh knew that though, since they never left Sebastien for much longer than a year before finding him something else to do. To keep him busy. Like now, for example; he had just spent a year piled in literature and alcohol while Andromache and Quynh travelled in Europe, but Andromache had called him two days ago with a job in Nice. So here Sebastien was, and here he would research and do reconnaissance until Andromache and Quynh joined him in a couple of days’ time.

It was also here that Sebastien would stop drinking heavily until the job was done (the flask was not a part of this agreement with himself - it had been a gift from Andromache so it would be rude not to use it every day). So Sebastien finished off his wine bottle and planted it down on the wall outside the safe house, rummaging in his pocket for the key - picked out from his huge selection of Old Guard safe house keys - to unlock the front door. He set down the bag on his shoulder and the bag from the supermarket just inside the door so that he could close and lock it behind him. He then turned around and rested his back against it, observing the corridor.

The familiarity of it was comforting; white washed walls and a cooler temperature than the air outside. Decoration was sparse in this particular house because Sebastien had been left in charge of its décor, but there were a couple of homely touches he had left behind; he knew in the living space he would find two large bookcases stuffed full of first edition literature, a few paintings of various cities in France that he particularly liked, and he knew that the vintage wine rack would still be pride of place in the kitchen. And out the back, unless the increase in Nice’s popularity as a holiday destination had meant it had been blocked by new builds, there was a great view of…

Sebastien’s thoughts stopped dead in their tracks. He had heard something. Footsteps. Andromache and Quynh were not due for days and the latest generation of housekeeper did not work on Tuesdays. He silently pushed himself away from the door, drew his gun and crept down the corridor towards the living space. He paused at the entryway, pressed back into the wall, waiting, listening, but he heard nothing more. After a breath, he surged forward and rounded the corner, gun at the ready, and froze.

There was a boy standing in the centre of the living area; a boy that was barely ten years old if that, a scrawny little thing with sandy blond hair, a roman nose and sea-green eyes. Those eyes stared wide at him and the child did not move an inch, rooted to the spot, a deer caught frozen in the sights of a hunter. Sebastien did not move either. He stared right back.

“Nicolò!” another child’s voice called out before the owner of the voice appeared, strolling into the room like he was familiar with the house. “Nicolò what are you…” he started, before he noticed Sebastien and the gun in his hand and also stopped in place, his posture immediately turning defensive. The second boy was a little taller and possibly a little older than the first, but not by much. His head was covered in unruly dark curls, and his dark brown eyes watched Sebastien warily. He edged closer to the other boy, who reached out and circled his fingers around his wrist. “Please don’t shoot us,” the second boy beseeched, in perfect French, which surprised Sebastien, because the boy had just been speaking to the other - Nicolò - in perfect Italian.

Sebastien overcame the initial shock fast. “I’m not going to shoot you,” he promised, already lowering the gun slowly, tucking it back into his jacket and then holding up his hands to show that he meant them no harm. “But I would quite like to know what you’re doing in my house?”

The two children shared a glance. “He left the house abandoned for two years…” Nicolò said in Italian, not to Sebastien but to the other boy, clearly assuming that Sebastien did not understand him.

“So you have lived here for two years?” Sebastien asked him, in Italian. The two children startled at his shared use of the language and watched him again, even more cautious. Nicolò had still not let go of the other boy’s wrist.

“We’re sorry,” Nicolò said immediately, still eyeing where Sebastien had stowed his gun, “When we first realised that the house was empty…”

Nicolò glanced to the second boy, who shrugged before seamlessly picking up the end of Nicolò’s explanation; “We watched the house for weeks to make sure nobody was living here. There is sometimes a cleaner, but never any residents.”

“I understand,” Sebastien told them, keeping to Italian since, judging by the name, it was likely Nicolò’s first language, and possibly the second boy’s, since he seemed fluent in it. “You have made use of a house that would otherwise have stayed empty.” He could not admonish the boys for using their intuition in finding an empty space and making it a place to live. Not when they clearly would have been homeless otherwise. They looked too skinny, and it made them look younger than they probably were. Orphans, Sebastien guessed. So young, and having to find shelter and survive. Sebastien’s heart ached; as it did for every child he had met in his long lifetime that had had to suffer anything but a happy, safe childhood. Sebastien did not care that the boys were trespassing, and he wanted to make sure that they knew it. He looked around, making a show of inspecting the safe house. “And it looks like you have taken good care of it for me.”

“We have taken _great_ care of it,” Nicolò vowed, so sincerely, as though he was worried Sebastien might think otherwise.

“In fact,” the other boy lifted his chin a little, “We have made it better.”

Sebastien could not help but smirk at the boy’s boldness, “I am sure you have. I am glad it has been in such good hands.”

“You really aren’t angry?” the boy asked, obviously confused and suspicious that Sebastien was so unbothered at entering his home to find two children permanently inhabiting it without his permission.

“I’m not angry,” Sebastien promised, “You boys needed somewhere to live, and you found one. I cannot fault you for that. My name is Sebastien,” he introduced himself, “You are Nicolò, yes?” he inclined his head at Nicolò who nodded guardedly, “And?” he waited expectantly, attention moving to the other boy.

The other boy was watching him steadily, a myriad of emotions flickering across his big expressive eyes like he was trying to decide what to say, “Joe,” the boy said, “They call me Joe, here.”

“Alright,” Sebastien agreed, lowering his hands back to his sides, “Well, it is good to meet you, Joe and Nicolò.”

“You are French?” Nicolò piped up, beginning to look a little more curious at Sebastien’s casual attitude.

“Oui,” Sebastien replied, “You are Italian?”

“Sì.”

“And you, Joe?” Sebastien asked.

Where Nicolò was looking increasingly curious, Joe was still watching him cautiously. “Tunisia,” he said and then, haltingly, “Originally.”

“Tunisia is a beautiful country,” Sebastien told him in Arabic, and he watched Joe’s eyes widen.

“You speak Arabic?” Joe asked, finally looking and sounding something other than wary or defensive for the first time since Sebastien’s arrival. He somehow visually brightened by several watts.

“Some. I find it hard to learn, but worth it. It is a beautiful language.”

“Yes,” Joe replied, softly, lips moving into a bright, bright smile, “Yes it is.”

Nicolò’s eyes were flicking between Sebastien and Joe, clearly not following much of the conversation since it had moved to Arabic, but at the sight of Joe’s smile Nicolò’s attention came to rest firmly on his friend and the rest of the tension seemed to leave his skinny frame.

“They know you as Joe, here,” Sebastien said, finally understanding what Joe might have meant by that, and after seeing Nicolò’s response to Joe’s happiness, concluding that Joe might be the one he needed to win the trust of first, “What do they know you as elsewhere?”

“Yusuf.”

“Which do you prefer?”

Joe shrugged, “Whichever the locals prefer,” he said, and he said it with such blasé resignation that it was painful to hear, “Here, it is Joe.”

“Ok,” Sebastien agreed, “Joe.” Before switching back to Italian for Nicolò’s sake, “Are you hungry, Joe? Nicolò?”

The two boys shared another glance and seemed to have a full conversation with just that look before they turned back to him simultaneously.

“Yes,” Nicolò admitted. His gaze dropped to his tatty shoes. “A little.”

“Would you like to join me for dinner?”

Their answering expressions were tentative but hopeful. The pair were definitely more relaxed than they had been and Sebastien was glad. After his middle son had been genuinely terrified of Sebastien after learning of his father’s immortality, Sebastien had always found it especially painful if children were ever afraid of him.

“If you’re sure?” Joe asked, with a small, thankful smile.

“Very sure,” Sebastien promised, “Consider it thanks for looking after my house for me.”

***

It turned out the boys _had_ taken great care of the house. It was clean and tidy, and the kitchen was stocked with several bowls of fruit that they had picked from the old trees in the small walled garden at the back of the property.

Sebastien had bought cheese, bread and a selection of meats from the supermarket to tide him over for the evening and next morning, and along with the fruit there was plenty to share between the three of them.

As they ate the boys gradually became a little more talkative as they grew more comfortable around him. He learned that they had broken into the property by prising open one of the back windows that was too small for any adult to fit through. He also learned that Joe was twelve years of age, and Nicolò was ten.

“I was born in 1966,” Joe told him, “And Nicolò was born in 1969 so I am three…”

“He is _not_ three years older than me,” Nicolò interrupted easily, like it was something Joe often teased him about, “Joe was born in the December of his year and I was born in the January of mine so he is only two years and two weeks older at _most_.”

Sebastien raised an eyebrow at Joe, who smiled sheepishly under Nicolò’s pointed look, “Two years and two weeks,” Joe agreed.

It sounded like such an old familiar argument that Sebastien asked them how long they had known each other. Apparently they had met in 1977 while living on the streets of Nice. Joe had been ten and Nicolò had been eight.

“We stole from each other,” Joe said with a laugh, pointing between them.

“Many times,” Nicolò added with a small grin.

“Yes,” Joe agreed, with a much less reserved grin.

“What did you steal from each other?” Sebastien asked.

“Money, food, shelter, territory…” 

“Territory?” Sebastien pressed.

“We had different ways of getting by,” Joe admitted, “I am better at…” he paused, face twisting a little with a shadow of shame. “I am better at ‘begging’ for money. Nicolò is a better pickpocket. We didn’t get on when we met. I stole a few of his opportunities by speaking to the tourists…”

“It made them more watchful of their surroundings,” Nicolò explained, “Knowing that there were homeless children around. So he took many of my chances.”

“And I was accused of pickpocketing several times because Nicolò got there first,” Joe countered.

“We figured out eventually that we were better off together than working against each other,” Nicolò said, “We could protect ourselves and each other better too.”

From there Sebastien learned that now that the two boys worked together, they had two main strategies. Either Joe would talk and distract while Nicolò stole, or Nicolò would steal something and then Joe would return it to who they stole it from pretending he had found it with the hope of receiving some kind of reward in thanks.

“We probably should not be telling you this,” Joe said suddenly, “You will not trust us in your house.”

Sebastien thought it probably best not to remind the boys that they had kind of already stolen his house. Still, he found himself under Nicolò’s scrutiny; incredibly shrewd for a ten year old, before Nicolò asked, “Why exactly are you feeding us? Why aren’t you telling us to get out?”

“Because my sons were your age once,” Sebastien said simply, bluntly honest, “And I would hope that if they had ever been in your situation that they would be treated with the same kindness.”

That seemed to satisfy the boys over Sebastien’s reasons, but it apparently did not appease them fully over Sebastien’s laidback hospitality. They shared another look with each other, and seemed to come to another silent agreement before Joe was asking “How long are you going to be here for, Sebastien?”

“A couple of weeks at least.”

“Do you need us to leave?” Nicolò asked, at the same time Joe asked “Can we stay?”

Sebastien smiled - he did not laugh, could not laugh at two children wondering whether they were still going to be able to keep a roof over their heads - but he smiled, “I have no problem with you staying here. I cannot promise what my friends will make of it when they arrive but...”

The boys both stilled, “Friends?” Joe asked, wary again.

“My friends Andrea and Quynh,” Sebastien said, using the latest name Andromache was using to protect her true identity, “They will be arriving in a couple of days. They are good people, but we are here for work, not a holiday, so I do not know what they will say about…”

“We can leave during the day!” Nicolò insisted, “We can stay out of your way all day! And we can sleep on the floor if…”

“Nicolò,” Sebastien held up his hand, “Do not worry. I am sure my friends will let you stay, especially as this is more my house than theirs. And as far as I am concerned, when I leave, you can carry on living here if that is what you need.”

Joe and Nicolò looked less excited by the prospect than suspicious. “You would let us carry on living here?” Joe repeated incredulously.

“I might,” Sebastien said, “But let’s see how the next two weeks pan out, shall we?”

“A lot can happen in two weeks,” Nicolò said, not sounding particularly comforted by the thought.

And maybe for a ten year old two weeks felt like a long time, but to Sebastien, he knew that those two weeks would pass by in the blink of an eye.

“I will be out of your hair before you know it,” Sebastien joked.

“I think that it is more that we are in your hair than the other way around,” Joe responded drily.

But Sebastien, as the boys dutifully cleaned the dishes and put everything neatly away and then politely thanked him, bade him goodnight and took themselves off to the smallest bedroom of the house - the one they had acquired for themselves - Sebastien did not think that the boys were a burden. He tried to force away how the evening had made him miss sitting at the dinner table with his wife and his sons and instead observed how refreshing it was to have such youthful light in a house that for decades had only seen occupants old and dulled by centuries.

He could hear the boys murmuring to each other through their closed door, and he knew he should not be surprised if the boys were disappeared by morning; preferring to wait until Sebastien, Andromache and Quynh had been and gone before returning to the house. But there was a small part of him that hoped they did not fear him and would trust him enough to stay.

***

25th July 1979  
Nice, France

Joe and Nicolò did not leave in the night. They had their leftovers from the previous night laid out for breakfast by the time Sebastien reached the kitchen that morning.

“Thank you,” he said, not hiding his surprise as he sat down and reached for the fruit bowl.

Nicolò cocked his head slightly, like he wasn’t sure why Sebastien was thanking them when he was the one letting them stay in his house. Joe shrugged in a ‘least we can do’ fashion, before picking at his food himself.

“You are up early,” Sebastien observed.

The boys shared looks. “We get up early to pray,” Nicolò revealed.

“To our respective gods,” Joe added at Sebastien’s eyebrows rising. “Plus it’s best for us to make an early start; a lot of tourists go out in the morning to avoid the afternoon heat later.”

“You are going out today?” Sebastien asked, a little surprised that the boys were still planning to go to ‘work’ on the streets.

“We go out every day,” Nicolò said.

“And what do you do in the time you aren’t out working?” Sebastien asked curiously.

“We go to the sea, sometimes,” Nicolò said, glancing at Joe, “And we like to read.”

“We love to read,” Joe emphasised, he leaned forward, eyes wide with interest as he looked at Sebastien, “Are all those books on the shelves yours, Sebastien?” he asked.

“Yes,” Sebastien said, “I like to collect books.” He observed them curiously. “How many have you read?”

“All of the Italian,” Nicolò said.

Joe nodded, “Most of the French too.”

Sebastien had grasped that Joe spoke fluent Arabic, and at least conversational Italian and French. Nicolò was fluent in Italian, conversational in French, and likely knew a smattering of Arabic from Joe; the pair seemed to shift between dialects when they spoke to each other, mainly sticking to Italian, but Sebastien had noticed the odd Arabic phrase going back and forth. He thought of the tourists of Nice and the books on his shelves and asked, “What about English? Do either of you speak English?”

“A little,” Joe said, in English.

“A little,” Nicolò repeated the English, after another glance at Joe.

While Sebastien had the feeling Joe was understating his ability, from the way Nicolò had copied Joe’s answer, Sebastien presumed Nicolò’s answer was honest.

“Enough to communicate with the tourists,” Joe confirmed.

***

Apparently they also knew enough English to eavesdrop on Sebastien’s phone calls.

It was not until the mid-afternoon that Sebastien heard from Andromache and Quynh. The boys had just come back from the supermarket. Sebastien had told them that they did not have to go to the streets while he was there, and had given them money and a grocery list, with permission to get themselves anything extra that they wanted. Sebastien had spent that time checking the house’s security, electricity, water and maintenance, before setting up his room for the two week stay.

He had checked the windows in the bedroom that the boys were occupying; the twin beds were pushed close to each other, and the boys’ possessions kept safely stowed under their beds. There was a small collection of child-appropriate books and toys, but from the handful of Sebastien’s books stacked neatly on one of the bedside tables, it truly did appear that the boys had been reading Sebastien’s books as much as their own.

The phone rang not long after Sebastien had put the groceries away and allowed Joe and Nicolò to scurry away with the bag of sweets they had bought for themselves.

“Bonjour,” he said into the phone.

“Bonjour Sebastien,” Andromache said on the other end of the line before converting to English, “How is the house?”

“A little different to the last time,” Sebastien admitted.

“Oh?” Andromache asked.

“I will explain when you arrive,” he decided it was best to let Andromache assess the situation in person, “How is your journey?”

“Slow,” he heard Quynh complain in the background.

Andromache breath huffed on the line and then she said, “We should be with you tomorrow evening.”

“Ok,” Sebastien agreed. “Is there anything you need me to do before you arrive? I am still not sure what job you have…”

“It’s about Rourke,” Andromache said, “Remember him?”

“I remember him,” Sebastien said darkly. He remembered the horror stories.

“Intel we gathered about a week ago suggests he’s currently in Nice. He’ll be moving on as soon as whatever job he’s doing there is done. If you could do some reconnaissance of the port and get his location, and set up for observation?”

“Of course,” Sebastien agreed.

“He’s operating out of one of his boats. The name _Eternity_ came up in our intel.”

“ _Eternity,_ ” Sebastien repeated. He knew how many boats were moored at Nice, and so he knew how long a job it might be to find that exact boat and then figure out the best vantage points for observing operations. “I can find it, Andromache. I will head to the port for reconnaissance this evening.”

“Thank you Sebastien. We will see you tomorrow.”

“See you soon Basti!” he heard Quynh call down the phone.

“Yes. See you soon,” Sebastien said, before putting the phone down.

He was already calculating the quickest way to find Rourke’s boat without asking and drawing attention to himself, or checking each and every boat in the port, of which there was a large enough amount to potentially be long, tedious work. If he could possibly persuade the harbour control to show him a listing of moorings he could…but then considering Rourke’s operations and finances it was more than possible that his mooring was being kept off the books, discreet, under the radar, which brought Sebastien right back to the amount of boats he would have to…

“You are looking for _Eternity_?” Nicolò’s voice startled him, and he spun around to find both Joe and Nicolò behind him, watching him curiously. “The boat?”

“Yes,” Sebastien frowned. He had been about to chastise the boys for eavesdropping in private conversations, but Nicolò’s question had piqued his interest. “Do you know it?”

“You won’t find it,” Joe said, and Sebastien was ready to curse, presuming that Joe meant that Rourke had been and gone; that The Old Guard had been too late to catch up to him and put a stop to his dangerous operations, until Joe continued; “They renamed it _Destiny_ about - when was it Nicolò? - two weeks ago?”

“They painted over its old name with the new one,” Nicolò agreed.

“You know it then,” Sebastien said.

“Yes. We spend a lot of time around the port,” Joe said, “You get to know the boats.” He shrugged, “Mr Rourke’s boat is one of the biggest ones. It is hard to miss.”

“So you know where it is?” Sebastien asked them, quietly impressed, but also a little concerned that the boys knew of Rourke by name. “The boat that was called _Eternity_?”

“Yes,” Joe said.

“We can show you,” Nicolò added, “If you like.”

Sebastien shook his head, “That is not safe,” he told them, “Rourke is a dangerous man.” He watched them, concerned, “You haven’t met him have you? Rourke? He doesn’t know you?”

“No,” Nicolò said.

Joe, though, shifted a little, eyes dipping to the ground and Sebastien focused on him, “Joe?” he pressed, concerned. He had heard enough about Rourke to know that he should never be around children.

“No I haven’t met him,” Joe said, “Some of his men know me, though.” He must have noticed Sebastien’s concern as he was quick to add “I haven’t ever taken anything from them,” he said, “They like me. They think I’m ‘entertaining’,” he used his fingers to quote in the air. “We know they are dangerous men, though. Everybody knows, right Nicolò? That’s why we don’t steal from them, and we avoid Rourke.”

Nicolò was watching Sebastien closely, “Is it not safe for Rourke or his men to see you with us?” he asked, terribly astute for one so young.

Joe looked to Nicolò and back to Sebastien, “What is it that you do, Sebastien?” Joe asked, becoming equally cautious.

“I am part of a team that fight bad people and help good people,” Sebastien said, “Rourke is involved in some terrible things and we hope to put a stop to it. So it would not be safe for either of you to be seen with me; particularly if his men know you and will not have ever seen me before.” Sebastien shook his head, but rubbed a hand over his chin thoughtfully. “Though,” he said, and noticed how the boys - who had been looking a bit disheartened to have had their offer of help refused - perk up a little, “You could save me a lot of time if you could show me on a map where his boat is? Give me directions? I would be grateful.”

Joe beamed, “Of course we can,” he told him, “Do you have a map?”

Sebastien could not help but smile a little as Nicolò nodded eagerly in agreement and sat himself down at the dining table, Joe settling in the chair next to him.

“Ok,” Sebastien allowed, “Let me go and get some things.”

As he left the room he heard the boys start babbling excitedly to each other in Italian about being involved in ‘secret spy missions’. His fond smile grew a little more.

The location provided by the boys was almost dead accurate, Sebastien found later that evening when he went to scope out the best observation points. He was glad that the boys were safely back in their room at the safe house, but he did not regret asking them for their aid; not when it made his recon and set-up less than half as long as it could have taken him.

The boys’ help meant that Sebastien was more than ready for Andromache and Quynh’s imminent arrival. Well, ready for Andromache and Quynh’s arrivals in terms of the mission, anyway. What Andromache and Quynh would think of their safe house’s young lodgers, however, was sure to be a whole other matter.


	2. 1979 (Part 2)

26th July 1979  
Nice, France

Nicolò watched Joe stow the small mat he used for prayer back with the rest of his scant belongings under the single bed that stood about a foot away from Nicolò’s own. When Nicolò had been in the orphanage he had hated having other children’s’ beds packed in so close to his own and never having any time on his own, but Nicolò didn’t mind sharing a room with Joe. When Nicolò and Joe had first broken into the empty house they had decided to share a room because it was safer. The longer that no tenants and only the odd housekeeper turned up, and Nicolò and Joe were able to grow more comfortable living there, Nicolò could have chosen to sleep in a different room, but he never did, because Joe was nice and funny and smart, and sharing a room with him was like having a sleepover every night; they would talk and tell each other stories and read to each other.

It seemed inconceivable now for Nicolò to remember how much he had hated Joe when he had first met him; when he and Joe had pilfered from each other and argued and tricked and taunted one another. Their rivalry had not lasted long. An eight year old and a ten year old who had been forced to grow up too fast were still just children after all, and their rivalry quickly morphed into a game, a challenge, in which Joe would smirk at him, and Nicolò would roll his eyes at Joe and vice versa.

And then had come the night the rain had come down hard and heavy, and Nicolò hadn’t been able to find shelter that was not checked regularly by authorities or occupied by other homeless people, and he had sat miserably in the rain, curled up under a sodden blanket, until Joe had stood over him, offered his hand, called a truce and said he knew a place they could both wait out the night. Nicolò could still remember looking up at Joe’s face, the street lights catching on the water in Joe’s hair and making it sparkle, and reaching up to take his hand. Enemies to frenemies, and from that moment their rain-soaked hands met and Joe pulled Nicolò to his feet and led him to the sheltered corner of a rundown beach hut, tentative friends.

That was two years ago now. And now Joe was Nicolò’s best friend in the whole world. His only friend. His only family.

Joe was lying back on his bed now, arms behind his head, and he was looking back at Nicolò. “It feels weird,” Joe said to Nicolò in Italian. Joe mostly spoke to Nicolò in Italian, because Nicolò could not speak Arabic very well yet, “Not going out this morning to work.”

Nicolò nodded in agreement, plucking at his bed sheets, “Sebastien said we didn’t have to though. Not while he is here.”

Joe hummed doubtfully, “I just hope Sebastien’s friends feel the same way when they arrive tonight.”

“Are you expecting us to be back on the streets by the end of the day?” Nicolò asked apprehensively.

Nicolò had survived homelessness for four months, but having lived in the empty house for nearly two years - a place Nicolò now considered _home_ here with Joe - he had grown comfortable and complacent and now the idea of having to survive back on the streets again was scarier than it had been back then, because he had more to lose this time. But Sebastien had said that he was only planning to stay at the house for two weeks, so maybe if Sebastien’s friends were not happy having Nicolò and Joe in the house while they were working, then maybe Nicolò and Joe would only have to survive for two weeks. It wouldn’t have to be forever…would it?

Joe must have heard the concern in Nicolò’s voice, because he glanced at him with a smile that did not quite reach his eyes - Nicolò knew when Joe was smiling truly or just to try and appear brave and unbothered for Nicolò's sake - and said “I am sure it will be fine. But we should probably make the most of having a morning off while we still can.” Joe made a show of stretching languidly on his bed like he was having the time of his life having a lazy morning.

Nicolò smiled to himself, his lips quirking upward at Joe joking around in spite of his worries, “Ok,” Nicolò agreed, because Joe always knew what to say. “Are you still glad we decided not to leave last night?”

“Yes,” Joe said immediately, eyes still closed, “There is a chance that Sebastien’s friends might like us, you know, we are pretty likeable.”

Nicolò’s smile grew, “Speak for yourself.”

“Oh please,” Joe snorted, cracking an eye open to look at him, “One look at that cute little face of yours Nicolò and they will melt. You shall be treasured and I shall be kicked to the street.”

Nicolò felt his cheeks heat a little at Joe calling his face ‘cute’ and was about to protest, but then registered the last of Joe’s words, and did not like that Joe presumed he would be unwanted. “With your puppy eyes?” Nicolò snorted, “They will love you Joe, everyone does.”

“The eyes are my not-so-secret weapons,” Joe didn't even deny it.

“They are pretty powerful weapons,” Nicolò agreed.

“Well then,” Joe shrugged nonchalantly, but his tone was a shade hopeful, “Maybe they will melt at the sight of the both of us and we will never have to worry about having to leave this place.”

***

On meeting Sebastien’s two friends, Nicolò quickly decided that neither of them were the ‘melting’ type.

Andrea and Quynh stared at Nicolò and Joe like they had never encountered children before which was kind of silly to think, because they had both been children once.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Mademoiselles,” Joe spoke for the both of them, hands clasped behind his back and smiling at them politely, “My name is Joe, and this is Nicolò. We have been very grateful to have had somewhere to live…”

Andrea’s eyes cut away from Nicolò and Joe to look at Sebastien.

Sebastien had lurched from the living area when he had heard the key in the front door, and had met the two women before they could get down the hallway. Joe and Nicolò had stayed out of sight on the sofa, listening in.

“Before we discuss or do anything else…” Sebastien had started, in French, so Nicolò was able understand what he was saying.

“That is quite the welcome, Basti,” one of the women had replied, her tone musically teasing, but in a cooler, more solemn way than anything warm and jovial. “It might lead one to think that there was bad news incoming.”

“Not bad news,” Sebastien had vowed, “Just…a situation.”

“Is that possibly the same situation that has made the house ‘a little different to the last time’?” the second lady, voice warmer and drier than the first, had asked. She had been quoting Sebastien; Nicolò had overheard Sebastien saying those words on the phone the day before.

“Yes,” Sebastien had admitted, “We have had some lodgers in the safe house in our absence. Two homeless children.”

“And?” the first lady’s voice had asked.

There was a pause, and then the second voice had said, “They are still here aren’t they?”

“Yes,” Sebastien had said, “I could not send them away. They have nowhere to go. And they have been helpful…” That was all he had managed to say before the two women strode into the room and had seen Nicolò and Joe for the first time.

So now here they were, a minute later, with Joe having said “It is a pleasure to meet you, Mademoiselles. My name is Joe, and this is Nicolò. We have been very grateful to have had somewhere to live…” And then the lady with the short hair and sharp cheekbones had looked at Sebastien and Joe had trailed off uncertainly.

“Oh I see,” the woman with the long hair said to Sebastien. She was the one who had spoken to Sebastien first - the one with the chillier tone to her words. “This is the charming one,” she gestured to Joe, and then her gaze fell on Nicolò. Nicolò forced himself to stare steadily back, “So is this the cautious one?”

“Do I have reason to be cautious?” Nicolò countered.

The woman laughed, but just like Joe’s laugh had earlier, it didn’t meet her eyes. “I don’t know,” she replied, “It depends on how much Sebastien here has told you.”

“Quynh,” Sebastien warned her quietly.

“We know you are here to work, and will be here for around two weeks,” Nicolò told them bluntly, because he decided to prove the lady’s assumption wrong. He was not always cautious. Sometimes he was reckless and Joe was the cautious one, and sometimes they both were. But they were always both trying to be brave. “And that you are good people that fight against bad people.”

“Bad people like Rourke,” Joe added, “We told Sebastien where to find his boat, to help you take him down.”

“That is all we know,” Nicolò said stubbornly.

“So we know you are the good guys,” Joe repeated, “Which we knew anyway, because Sebastien has been very kind to us, letting us continue to stay here despite our…unusual living arrangement.”

“They have been an asset,” Sebastien supported what Nicolò and Joe had said, for which Nicolò was grateful; that Sebastien was not willing to back down, “I would have had hours less of surveillance without their pointing out Rourke’s location on a map of the port.”

“We would be happy to aid further in any way necessary,” Joe chipped back in, still maintaining the polite smile, and, Nicolò noted, the ‘puppy eyes’.

“Yes,” Nicolò agreed, “We can run errands to the supermarket, or clean, or take messages.”

The lady Sebastien called Quynh was watching them with sharp, assessing eyes, “Quite the united front, aren’t we?” she said, “Even though you know how dangerous this is, Basti.” And then said something further in a language Nicolò did not understand. Nicolò glanced at Joe but from the blank look on Joe’s face, Joe didn’t understand it either.

“They will not be present during our operations,” Sebastien told her, keeping to French, presumably so that Nicolò and Joe were able to continue following the conversation, “They can go out for the day, they just need a place to sleep.” He turned his gaze to the other woman, “Andro…Andrea,” he urged, “We have done as much if not more for children in the past than providing them shelter. They will learn no more of our work. But I wish to see them warm, dry and well fed while we are here. I cannot see them on the street.”

“Neither can I,” Andrea replied, and now that Nicolò could see her face, he was surprised that someone so youthful could have a voice that sounded so world-weary. She turned to look at Nicolò and Joe, and Nicolò felt pinned by her gaze. “How long have you lived here?” she asked them.

“We have lived here for twenty months,” Nicolò replied.

“We have kept the house clean and tidy,” Joe added, as he and Nicolò had reassured Sebastien when they had first met him, too. “We have only been staying in the smallest bedroom, the one with the two single beds? But if you need that room then Nicolò and I would be happy to…”

Andrea held up her hand and Joe immediately stopped talking. “You may keep your room,” Andrea said, ignoring Quynh’s hiss of a word that sounded like ‘ _Andromache_!’… “But you must keep yourselves out of the house while we work and in your room if we are still working in the evening. You must promise not to listen in, or involve yourselves in our work. Do you understand?”

“We will keep out of your way,” Joe summised and confirmed. “It will be like we aren’t even here, right Nicolò?”

“Sì,” Nicolò vowed immediately, “You won’t even know we are here.”

“Andrea,” Quynh insisted, even as Sebastien thanked Andrea for agreeing. But Quynh seemed to understand she was outnumbered, and she turned to fix the boys with a stare that pinned Nicolò even more effectively than Andrea’s had. “If anybody in this city finds out we are here…” she warned, “We will know exactly how those people found out. Do you understand? This is a secret operation. You must keep this - us - being here, _secret_. Tell me you understand.” It was not a question.

“We understand,” Nicolò said immediately.

“We understand,” Joe agreed, a second after, audibly cautious.

Quynh blinked, the intensity leaving her a little, “I am hungry,” she announced, “The children can eat dinner with us.”

“Thank you Mademoiselle,” Joe said.

“No further ‘Madamoiselle’s necessary,” Quynh corrected, “I am Quynh, and this is Andrea.”

Nicolò switched his gaze back to Andrea, who was no longer looking at him and Joe, but steadily watching Sebastien. To Nicolò her expression was unreadable, but from the way Sebastien was almost purposefully not looking back at her, Nicolò imagined Sebastien would be able to perfectly read what the look on her face meant.

“You can run along now, boys,” Sebastien told them, his expression warm, if a little strained, and Nicolò knew that Sebastien had had no idea how this meeting would go - or, perhaps, how it might go the minute Nicolò and Joe were out of the room - “I will let you know when dinner is ready.”

“Thank you,” Joe said. Joe liked Sebastien, Nicolò could tell.

Nicolò liked Sebastien too. “Yes, thank you Sebastien, Andrea, Quynh,” Nicolò addressed them all.

Joe’s fingers curled around Nicolò’s wrist and pulled, and together they retreated to their room.

Joe let out a deep breath when he closed the door behind them. Nicolò waited until Joe glanced at him.

“You think they might change their minds,” Nicolò said; a statement not a question.

“They don’t trust us,” Joe said. He looked and sounded worried. Nicolò hated Joe sounding worried or anxious; he had heard enough of that in the two years he had known him.

“Well,” Nicolò said simply, sitting back on his bed, “We will just have to make sure they know that they can.”

Joe’s lips quirked into a smile, but only a small one so Nicolò couldn’t count it as successful attempt at cheering up his best friend; “But do _we_ trust _them_?” Joe asked him, and now that he was looking at Nicolò, Nicolò could see the worry in Joe’s big eyes.

Nicolò thought back to the intensity of Quynh and Andrea, and the way Quynh had practically threatened them to secrecy. Nicolò had been so desperate to be liked by Andrea and Quynh so to be able to keep a roof over their heads, it was only in thinking back over the conversation that Nicolò realised that these people, while fighting on the ‘good’ side, might still be dangerous.

“I don’t know,” Nicolò said, nervous again, “I trust Sebastien, I think.”

“Me too, I think,” Joe said, chewing on his bottom lip, “But he’s outnumbered now.”

***

Only when the boys had left the room did Sebastien meet Andromache’s gaze. He knew what he would see in her face; concern. The kind of concern she had on her face whenever she found Sebastien blind drunk. The kind of concern she had on her face whenever he mentioned his family. The kind of concern she always had on her face when she knew Sebastien was making reckless choices without consulting her beforehand.

Andromache did not say anything though. Quynh got there first.

“Sebastien,” Quynh hissed at him, “This is quite possibly the craziest thing you have ever done.”

“Not Madrid in ’28?”

“Even crazier than that!” she insisted, her expression deadly serious, “If those boys say a word about us being here, or if they see or hear anything they shouldn’t…this is too risky, Andromache! It is too risky!”

Sebastien knew the reason Quynh was so upset, of course he did, and he understood. She was terrified about someone finding out about their immortality, and finding herself back in another iron tomb; whether it a prison, a coffin, or a laboratory.

She and Andromache had been captured and tried during the witch trials. When they had not died, they had been deemed too powerful to keep together. Quynh had been dragged from Andromache, put into an iron maiden, wheeled onto a ship and somewhere in the middle of the ocean the iron maiden was tossed overboard. Andromache had finally managed to escape when she had outlived and outsmarted her captors, but by the time she did, Quynh had been at the bottom of the ocean for years. Andromache had hunted down each and every man that had been on that ship, but none could tell her the location. Andromache had searched and searched, but Quynh had been trapped in an iron maiden at the bottom the sea, repeatedly drowning, for hundreds of years.

It was not until Sebastien had become immortal that they had found Quynh. Sebastien had had visions of Andromache, until Andromache had come and found him, but Sebastien had continued to have dreams about Quynh, trapped in a metal coffin under the sea. Quynh, however, had also been dreaming about him, and knowing that there was a new immortal connected to her mind, had somehow managed to push memories into Sebastien’s head as he slept which helped to narrow down the search for her.

Sebastien had been immortal for two decades by the time they successfully located Quynh and rescued her. She had been driven to near madness, like anybody would, and she was still in recovery over a hundred years later. She was much better, now, but still prone to bursts of cold fury, and incredibly mistrusting of anyone mortal. Sebastien could not blame her for that, not after everything she had been through, but he was not going to back down from this. Joe and Nicolò were innocent children, and Sebastien somehow had no doubt that the boys would keep their word and keep the Old Guard’s presence in the house a secret.

He just had to ensure that they did not eavesdrop on anything more than the phone call they had overheard the previous day.

“They won’t say anything, Quynh, and we will give them no reason to believe that we are anything other than secret agents. They just want to keep a roof over their heads, and I think they will do whatever they have to do to stay. They will not betray us.”

“And why exactly,” Andromache finally spoke up, watching him steadily still, “Are they needing a roof over their heads? Have you found out where they are from? Why they are here in Nice?”

“I don’t know,” Sebastien admitted after a reluctant pause. “Nicolò is from Italy, Joe - Yusuf - is from Tunisia, but that is all I know of where they have come from.”

“So you don’t know if they have families?” Andromache’s eyebrow arched, “You have no idea if they are being missed? Searched for?”

“They could be spies themselves,” Quynh added suspiciously, “Planted here by Rourke.”

“No,” Sebastien said immediately, “No. They are not. They are innocent children who were living on the streets, decided to stick together because it was safer for them than being alone, and took an opportunity of an empty house. I will make sure that they keep out of our way, but they are just children, Quynh, I promise you that.”

“Promise me? After knowing them for two days?” Quynh scoffed, “You know nothing about either of them.”

“And they know nothing about us,” Sebastien demanded, “But they have been willing to trust me so far. I would like to keep it that way. Andromache, we have saved children in the past - in ones, twos, whole groups - and travelled with them for days while on jobs, and the risk of them learning about us has never been an issue before.”

“This is different,” Andromache pointed out, “This is two children in _our_ space, not us in theirs.”

“It is no different,” he argued, “They needed our help, and we are giving it. Andromache please…”

“I have already said they can stay,” Andromache said bluntly, “So long as they do as they are told and keep out of our way, we can get the job done and leave, but Sebastien, by the time we do leave, you will have decided what to do with them, because they can’t come with us, and they can’t stay here.”

“Why not here?” Sebastien asked, ignoring Andromache’s belief that Sebastien might want to bring the boys along with them, because Sebastien already knew that that was an impossibility, so had not even bothered to entertain the idea.

“They are children raising themselves! You would let them stay here, fending for themselves, with no means to make money other than criminality, with no adult guidance or protection, no education? Really?”

Sebastien sighed, “You are right, I know you are right. But I have a feeling if we present any other option to them than staying here they will run away.”

“Then that will solve our problem,” Quynh shrugged.

“You don’t mean that Quynh,” Sebastien said, “I know you don’t.”

She levelled him with a look, “Don’t I?” she said.

But despite her misgivings, Quynh was still a woman of her word, and she had said the boys could join them for dinner, so an hour later dinner was ready and Quynh had not retracted her invitation.

Sebastien rapped lightly on the boys’ closed bedroom door. A moment later it opened and Joe was looking up at him. “Hi Sebastien,” Joe said, uncharacteristically subdued, “Is everything ok?”

He looked nervous, and so did Nicolò where he was climbing cautiously off his bed; they clearly were anticipating Sebastien telling them that Quynh and Andromache had changed their minds.

“Everything is fine,” Sebastien told them, hoping that that was true, “Dinner is ready, if you boys are hungry.”

The boys looked surprised but nodded eagerly and followed Sebastien through to the kitchen.

Dinner went off without much a hitch. Quynh was a little short, but the boys were polite, and grateful. True to her word Andromache did not grill the boys about their situations, though Sebastien knew that that would become a conversation if at the end of the job the Old Guard made to leave and the boys were hoping to carry on staying in the house.

Sebastien knew very well that it would be irresponsible to leave a twelve and ten year old alone to fend for themselves, with no guardian, security, protection, permanent home, or education, and without knowing a thing about how and why they were in that situation in the first place. He knew he would have to bring all that up eventually.

But for now the job was priority, and as long as the boys did as they had vowed and stayed out of the house when the Old Guard were working, then only after the job was done would sorting out the boys - and whatever fallout that would potentially cause - become a subject of discussion.

But first they had work to do, and Rourke to bring down.

***

2nd August 1979  
Nice, France

  
“There’s word Rourke’s cutting his trip short,” Andromache announced in frustration as she strode into the kitchen, “He might not stay the full two weeks.”

It had only been a week since Andromache and Quynh had arrived at the safe house. The mission had been slow going. The boat _Destiny_ had turned out to be a red herring base of operations, and it had taken them another couple of days to track down the high security building Rourke was really using and make their observations. A boat was easy to storm and take out. A building like that, in a highly populated area, had taken much more planning. And still the only way they had figured out to get into the building without alerting security and sending Rourke and his people scurrying like rats were the security cards that his most trusted men kept on their person. It had been a frustrating mission in the first place, and now their window to act had potentially just gotten much smaller.

“How’s the security card going Sebastien?” Quynh asked, where she was pouring over schematics for that part of town.

Sebastien sighed heavily and his fingers itched for his flask, “I know that getting our hands on a security card is by far the lowest collateral risk, but there is no way I’m going to be able to forge one of those cards in such a short time span without getting hold of a real one first.”

Rourke’s men were using magnetic stripe cards, which was technology that had only been around for little more than a decade; top security and damn hard to forge without the right technologies at hand.

Quynh hissed her frustration. “I still don’t see why we can’t just take one of his men and…”

“Rourke’s not stupid. His security is high. His people check in every hour,” Andromache reminded her, not for the first time, “If one of them doesn’t respond in exactly the correct way at the correct time, they will be on high alert and we'll ruin our chance.”

Sebastien sighed and sat back in his chair, scrubbing a hand over his hair, “Well we’ve got to think of something…”

A tentative knock on the door had the Old Guard spinning around and tensing up, wound up enough to react immediately to the noise.

“Nicolò,” Sebastien said in Italian, “Joe?” He said it in a tone that reminded them that they should not be hanging around the kitchen while the Old Guard were working; and so far the boys had been as good as gold at sticking to that rule. They had kept themselves occupied out of the house during the day after breakfast, and only came back for dinner and for the evening, and they spent most of that time in their room, or reading, or spending time with Sebastien.

Sebastien had enjoyed the boys’ company. They chattered to him excitedly about all kind of things; books, other countries, sport, history - they were amazed at Sebastien’s knowledge of French history. Sebastien had been not at all unwillingly dragged into several games of football, but just in the small garden at the back of the house; although the boys had tried to get him to join them at the beach to play a more spacious game, it was too risky for everyone involved for them to be seen with him.

The boys had mostly kept out of Andromache and Quynh’s ways, but Quynh had relaxed somewhat in their presence, and Andromache liked children, Sebastien knew, and had already been charmed by Joe and Nicolò even if she did not openly express it. Just the fact that she and Quynh would sometimes chip into Sebastien’s answers to the boys’ questions on geography and history and literature was enough evidence of that.

It was strange then, that the boys would intrude now when things had been going so well.

“Is everything ok?” Sebastien asked, rather than berate them for it, because he knew they would not be interrupting without a reason; they were still being so cautious because they wanted to be able to stay in the house.

“Everything’s fine. It’s fine,” Joe insisted, edging into the kitchen, “Just don’t be mad, ok?” And he put something down on the table.

Sebastien stared at it as Andromache came to look over his shoulder.

“Is that what I think it is?” Quynh asked, voice sharpening and cooling right off again.

It was a security card of one of Rourke’s men.

“Where did you get this, boys?” Sebastien asked, tone flat, because he had already guessed.

“We know Andrea made us promise not to listen in or involve ourselves in your work,” Nicolò said, repeating Andromache’s conditions from that first evening near perfectly, “But we could not help but figure out that you have been trying to work out how to get one of the security cards, and we know how bad Rourke is and that you need to stop him while he is still in Nice and so…well, we knew we could help.”

“How?” Quynh said, her distrust returning in icy abruptness. “How did you do this?”

Sebastien, however, had already figured it out, “Some of his men know Joe, but not Nicolò. Isn’t that what you told me, Joe?”

Joe nodded, though his gaze was still darting anxiously between Quynh and Andrea, settling on Quynh as her expression changed at hearing that Joe was known to Rourke’s men.

“I’m quite a performer. I like to talk to people, jest about,” was what Joe said quickly, as though trying to appease the brewing storm, “So I’m on speaking terms with a couple of them, and sometimes egg them into passing a football back and forth. It means I stay on their good side. And one of them gives me snacks sometimes. Nothing more. I’ve never stolen from them, which is why they might not even suspect I had anything to do with it. They don’t know Nicolò...”

“Pickpockets aren’t so showy,” Nicolò added with a small, sly smile as Joe shot him a look that suggested that right then was _not_ the time. Sebastien might have smiled fondly at their antics, if the situation hadn't been so serious.

“So,” Joe continued pointedly, “I approached the one that gave me snacks and distracted him, and Nicolò slipped it out of his pocket. We’ve never stolen from him so hopefully he will just think he’s lost it. I’m sorry we have broken our promise but we had a way to get you a card and you wouldn’t have let us do this otherwise.”

Andromache held up her hand. The room fell silent. She was clearly thinking, eyeing the security card on the table.

“We have a plan for once we get inside, we just needed a way in,” she said. She pointed at the card. “That is our way in.”

“We act now?” Quynh was looking considerably less distraught already at the idea of a good old fight and finishing the job.

Sebastien nodded when Andromache looked at him; they needed to seize the opportunity while they had it as they might not get another.

“Then we act now,” Andromache said, “And fast.” She looked at the boys, “You two stay here. Do not leave the house until we return, do you understand?”

The boys nodded, looking relieved that their plan seemed to have helped. Sebastien quickly vacated his seat to chaperone the boys back to their room as Andromache and Quynh began to rapidly discuss weaponry.

“You aren’t angry?” Nicolò asked him, looking up at him with those earnest sea-glass coloured eyes.

“You did well,” Sebastien said, “So I am not angry. But I am worried that you both may have brought far more attention to yourselves than you should have, if they figure out it was you. I am worried you have put yourselves in danger.”

“We’re sorry, Sebastien,” Joe insisted, “We just wanted to help.”

Sebastien could not resist placing a reassuring hand on the back of Joe’s head, just for a moment, before taking it away, “And you _have_ helped,” he said, “In fact, you have just given us the means to finish this job. So we have to go and finish our work as quickly as possible, but promise me and mean it this time, that you will stay here, and not let anyone in until we return.”

“We promise.”

***

And to be fair to the boys, they did keep to their word. The next time they opened the door it was to Sebastien, Andromache and Quynh. A second before all three of them were gunned down on the doorstep.


	3. 1979 (Part 3)

It was quiet in the house. It felt wrong.

Joe and Nicolò had lived in that level of quiet for twenty months, but after only a week of Sebastien, Andrea and Quynh living in the house too, that old quiet had become almost unbearably stifling. Though the tension was probably also down to the fact that the owners of the house were currently fighting a crime boss and his people, and no doubt ridiculously outnumbered.

Joe was getting restless waiting in their room, pacing the floor, and he knew Nicolò was uneasy too; he kept shifting where he was sitting on the edge of his bed.

“Do you think we did the right thing?” Joe asked, “Stealing the pass and giving it to them?”

“I think if it helps them take down someone bad like Rourke,” Nicolò said, “Then yes we did.”

“But did us taking the pass force them to act too fast?”

“This is their job though, isn’t it?” Nicolò reminded Joe. Joe could feel Nicolò’s gaze following him as he paced back and forth, “It sounds like they have worked together for years, and on more dangerous missions than this. Remember what Sebastien said about them spending days helping children?”

“I know,” Joe agreed, “I would just feel bad…” he stopped and let out a breath, “If after them being good to us, especially Sebastien, that we have ruined their mission, or put them in more danger…”

“I think they had no other choices,” Nicolò said bluntly, hoping it would appease Joe’s worries, “We gave them a chance to stop Rourke before he leaves the city.”

Joe smiled at him, because Nicolò was always so level headed, and reasonable, and always knew what to say to calm Joe’s nerves. “You are right,” Joe said, “As always, Nicolò.”

“That is not true,” Nicolò said, “But I _am_ hungry. Maybe some food will take our minds off it?”

“Good idea,” Joe said, brightening up, and pleased to see Nicolò looking a little happier too, “That might help.”

It was dark in the house, but that was how it was always kept; Joe and Nicolò had kept it that way to make it look like nobody was living there when they shouldn't be, and then when Sebastien, Andrea and Quynh had arrived they had used thick curtains to block out any light to the street outside, presumably to also make it look like nobody was living in the house while they planned their secret mission. Still, the dark that night felt different, and Joe and Nicolò stuck close to each other as they left their room and headed to the kitchen. It was weird that somewhere that had been Joe’s home for so long suddenly felt unsafe, just because they had been told to stay where they were and not leave it.

Nicolò was right though. Snacking in the kitchen, feet swinging as they perched on the tall stools, was a good distraction, even though they both seemed to naturally be keeping any conversation at a whisper, like talking at normal volume would give away their location. So food was a good distraction, but not so distracting that they did not notice the noises behind the front door when they grew louder.

Joe froze and met Nicolò’s wide eyes; his best friend’s hand paused halfway through lifting a segment of orange to his mouth.

“Is that them?” Nicolò whispered, lowering the orange back to his plate.

“I don’t know,” Joe murmured back, listening closely, “I can hear female voices? Maybe Quynh?”

Nicolò jumped down from his seat and rushed out the kitchen before Joe could stop him, so Joe got up and followed him into the hallway. Nicolò had such rushes of boldness, Joe had almost laughed the first time Quynh met them and suggested that Nicolò was the cautious one.

“Nicolò!” Joe hissed, catching Nicolò’s wrist before he could make it to the door.

But then they both froze, because they definitely heard Sebastien’s voice.

“Sebastien,” Joe confirmed, his relieved smile matching Nicolò’s as they both rushed the rest of the way to the door.

Joe was the one that opened it. Sebastien had a key in his hand ready to unlock the door, and Andrea and Quynh were standing a pace behind them. The three of them looked tired, but triumphant. They also seemed to have walked away without a single scratch…maybe they really were super spies or secret agents - like James Bond!

“You did it?” Nicolò asked at Joe’s shoulder, “You stopped Rourke?”

Sebastien sent them a brilliant grin and reached out to ruffle Nicolò’s hair, “We did thanks to…” He never finished the sentence. Sebastien’s body jerked; his shoulder wrenching forward like he’d been hit from behind, and then the noise that accompanied it registered. And then the noises didn’t stop.

Joe could only watch in horror as Sebastien, Andrea and Quynh got shot in their backs. And the next thing Joe knew Sebastien was shoving Nicolò into Joe to push them behind the door and out of any direct line of fire. Sebastien hit the ground. Terrified, Joe and Nicolò held onto each other, tucked away in the small gap between the door that had swung into the hallway, and the hallway wall. There was more gunfire, and then a single shot that sounded much closer to them. And then the rapid gunfire stopped.

Joe’s breath was coming quick and panicked, and he opened his eyes to find Nicolò staring at him, motionless.

“Joe…” Nicolò’s voice was small and afraid.

Joe shook his head, eyes wide in warning, and Nicolò didn’t say anything more, nodding quickly in understanding; Nicolò must have seen how scared Joe was too.

There were no more gunshots, but they did hear a groan, and Andrea saying “Fuck.”

Joe let Nicolò go and edged out from behind the door. Sebastien was lying mostly in the hallway on his front, but was trying to push himself up. Andrea was sitting on the doorstep, her back to the outside wall, and she had a handgun in her lap. A glance across the street meant that Joe saw the attacker; a lone gunman dead on the road. But he wasn’t the only one who was dead. Quynh was lying in the doorway, crumpled, her eyes open.

“Oh...my…” Joe’s voice came out fearful and frantic in a way it hadn’t done in a long time, “Nicolò, Nicolò go and call an ambulance we…”

“No!” Sebastien protested in Italian from the floor, “No! Nicolò don’t! Joe…don’t call anyone!”

“But you’re hurt!” Nicolò demanded, “And I think…” his voice quavered, “I think Quynh might be dead.”

“Shit,” Andrea said, “We have to get her in the house. The gunfire will have drawn attention.”

Joe stared at the three dead or wounded adults in the doorway and suddenly feared that they were far more emotionless than they had made Joe believe; Sebastien didn’t want an ambulance? Neither of them were sad about Quynh? Because Joe had been kind of afraid of Quynh, and he had tears spilling from his eyes already.

“All you care about is not drawing attention?” he asked, appalled and devastated and panicked that these good people could be so heartless to their own team, “Quynh is dead! She…”

And then Quynh moved. Nicolò let out a terrified breath next to Joe. “She’s still alive,” Nicolò said, “We have to call an ambulance before she…”

“No!” Sebastien groaned, and Joe watched, rigid with speechless shock, as Sebastien shoved himself to his feet, and there was a tinkling sound, and Joe started back a step when he realised it was the sound of bullets dropping off Sebastien’s back and scattering onto the floor.

Joe reached out blindly for Nicolò’s hand, and Nicolò held it with a painful grip as the pair of them moved back into the wall as Andrea also got to her feet, and after a quick check of the street to make sure no onlookers had arrived yet, she and Sebastien grabbed an arm of Quynh’s each and lifted her, carrying her into the house.

“Shut the door please boys,” Andrea said.

Joe did not move. Nicolò didn’t either. As the three adults moved past them Joe could see the bloody holes in the back of their clothing, but the skin showing through the holes did not look like they were bleeding at all.

“Boys,” Andrea ordered, a little more severe the second time, “Please shut the door before we draw attention.”

Joe finally moved enough to glance at Nicolò, because he suddenly wasn’t sure that he wanted to be locked in with these people.

“Joe, Nicolò,” Sebastien implored, his tone soft, but distracted, and Joe’s gaze flicked over to watch as Sebastien and Andrea lowered Quynh onto the sofa. So he also saw Sebastien glancing back with worry on his face at where Joe and Nicolò had pressed themselves back against the wall, eyes wide and hands vice-like in each other’s grip.

And it was that concern on Sebastien’s face that finally had Joe moving a little to push the door enough that it swung shut. He had just shut them in with three people who apparently could not be shot. And he didn’t know why. It seemed like a very foolish thing to do. He should have just used his grip on Nicolò’s hand to bolt them out the door. But he didn’t. So he was relieved to feel Nicolò’s hand squeeze his in supportive agreement of shutting the door.

“Thank you,” Sebastien said to them, sending them a small smile; the same kind of cautious smile he gave them the first day he found Joe and Nicolò in his house and was trying to convince them that he wasn't angry that they had been living there, “We can explain. We promise.”

“There’s no need to be scared; Rourke and his men are defeated," Andrea said, "That was the last one; we should have known to be wary of a last man. We’ve had enough practice.” The last part was said dryly, with a pointed look for both Sebastien and Quynh.

“I don’t think it’s Rourke’s men they are currently scared of,” Joe heard Sebastien murmur back to her.

“They know,” Quynh said, and Joe stared as she started to sit herself up, brushing at herself, and Joe backed into Nicolò in his haste to put distance between himself and the woman brushing the bullets that had killed her out of her clothing. “And they are scared of us. Scared tongues are loose tongues, Sebastien. Fix this.”

***

Sebastien knew that despite Quynh’s blunt phrasing she was speaking sense. It wouldn’t be the first time that someone had witnessed the Old Guard’s immortality and freaked out; tried to tell people, to get people to believe them, or worse, gone to authority figures to report it. He knew it was Quynh’s biggest fear, and he wanted nothing more than to ease his immortal sister’s fears. And he wanted to quell Joe and Nicolò’s fears too.

He had seen the looks on their faces as he had pushed himself to his feet after being shot in the doorway; both of them wide eyed and shell shocked, mouths hanging open, their hands grabbing each other like they both wanted to protect the other if anything more happened. They had looked scared - of the gunfire or the sight of the three adults they had been living with for over a week rise again after taking a hail of bullets - he didn’t know for sure, but Sebastien had seen and known enough fear to know it was likely directed more at his immortality than him taking the bullets in the first place.

Andromache nodded at him, so Sebastien squeezed Quynh’s arm and stood, turning to look at the boys, who were still frozen in place in the hallway.

“I know this must be very scary, and confusing,” he started, trying to ignore the memories of the terror of his sons that pushed unbidden to the front of his mind, “But we can explain.”

Joe suddenly laughed. It was short, and a little strangled, like it had been shocked out of him, and he was still wiping at his eyes with the sleeve of his jumper; drying them of tears he had shed when he had thought the three of them dead and injured, which made Sebastien feel even guiltier. “Explain how you’re bulletproof?”

“Not bulletproof, Joe,” Nicolò amended in Italian, his gaze dropping down to the bullets littering the floor, “The bullets have blood on them. Their skin is not like armour.”

Joe pulled a face like Nicolò had made a good argument, and fixed a shrewd, suspicious gaze on Sebastien, “Super healing?”

Nicolò shrugged and regarded Sebastien critically before asking him, “What kind of superheroes are you?”

“Superheroes?” Sebastien choked out in surprise.

“We thought you were super-secret spies, or agents like James Bond,” Joe said, “But are you actually just superheroes?”

Superheroes were relatively new to Sebastien; only something that had been picking up momentum in magazines and comic books during the current century. But here The Old Guard were, presented with their first witnesses to their immortality that had existed alongside comic books and fictional superheroes. It was the first suggestion of super-heroism that Sebastien's immortality had received, and to be frank, it made a rather refreshing change from accusations of witchcraft, or vampirism, or miracles, or demons, or angels.

“Who’s James Bond?” Andromache asked.

And ridiculously, it was that that broke the tension in the room, as Nicolò exclaimed, “You don’t know who James Bond is? 007?!”

“You need to come with us to the cinema sometime,” Joe said, looking more offended than afraid now, “You would like James Bond.”

“Are you old enough for those kinds of films?” Sebastien asked doubtfully. Unlike Andromache, Sebastien had not been ignorant to the film franchise that had been releasing films regularly over the last two decades. But maybe that was because Sebastien was younger than Andromache, and the evolution of technology was often not quite as foreign to him as it was to her.

“We sneak into the cinema to watch them,” Nicolò said, like that should be obvious.

Sebastien hummed, “You two are very good at sneaking into places.”

“Thank you,” Nicolò said.

Quynh snorted loudly, apparently impressed and amused with Nicolò’s blunt response, before getting to her feet and wandering to the kitchen. Inevitably the boys’ attention snapped back to her, the tension immediately rising once more.

“You’re not just bullet proof or have super healing,” Joe said, voice stoic again, and his gaze flew from Quynh back to Sebastien, “You can come back to life?”

“Yes,” Sebastien said, because there was no point in lying.

Sebastien felt Andromache’s sudden presence at his shoulder as she stood up beside him, “We are immortal,” Andromache told them.

“You can’t die?” Nicolò clarified.

“We can die,” Andromache corrected, “One day our immortality will run out; it has happened to one of us before, but until then, no, we don’t die."

Both boys opened their mouths, and Sebastien could practically hear the types of questions that were about to be asked, even though Andromache never let them get the chance. “You must have lots of questions,” Andromache cut them off, “But I’m afraid we don’t have time for that right now. We have to leave the house as soon as possible, before the police can arrive. You two will have to come with us.”

“Andrea,” Sebastien said shortly as the boys looked shell shocked all over again, “A word?”

Andromache nodded and turned on her heel to head to the kitchen, expecting Sebastien to follow her. Sebastien looked at the children, and they stared back at him.

“Sebastien…” Joe started, uncertain.

“I will be back,” Sebastien said, “I will come back to talk with you very soon, ok?” After receiving a tentative ‘ok’ in confirmation, Sebastien strode to the kitchen. “Andromache,” he said when he entered, speaking in Vietnamese both to keep the boys from understanding and also to appease Quynh, “We can’t force them to…”

“We won’t be forcing them to do anything,” Andromache said simply, “But you know as well as I do that the police will be outside with the gunman’s body any moment now, and it won’t take too long for them to spot the blood spatters on the doorstep of this house. We need to leave and make it look like we were never here. We’ve bought ourselves time keeping the house dark…” which was true; the safe house had blackout curtains so at night any electric lights couldn’t be seen from the street, and the Old Guard had been discreet in their comings and goings. And even before they had arrived, Nicolò and Joe had been doing the same thing; living discreetly so people did not know that the empty house was being occupied. “But the blood in the doorway will make the police enter the house to make sure there’s no gunman hiding out in here nursing their wounds. It’s inevitable. And if they find the boys living here the boys will be questioned as witnesses, and even if not, they will be returned to wherever they came or ran away from. They need to come with us until we can guarantee they aren’t going to expose us. I can’t in good conscience let them return to the street to avoid the police investigation of the house. They’ll come with us until we can make alternative arrangements for their safety.” She checked her watch. “And you have five minutes to convince them while Quynh and I pack and clean up the mess in the hallway.” She turned to look at Quynh, who already had a wine bottle in hand. “Quynh, do you agree?”

Quynh took a big gulp of wine straight from the bottle, “I don’t like bringing them with us, but if it’s temporary and means they won’t expose us, then fine. Let’s pack.” She took another swig of wine and pulled a face, “I don’t know why you insist on the French wine, Basti.”

“Because it’s the best wine,” Sebastien answered shortly, and walked out of the kitchen before he could receive a retort. The boys were exactly where he had left them; they hadn’t been able to eavesdrop on the conversation in the kitchen but seemed to be lingering like they had hoped the conversation might slip into a language they understood.

“What’s happening to us?” Nicolò asked, watching Sebastien with such a solemn expression. Not for the first time the boys reminded Sebastien of all the children Sebastien had met in the last two centuries that had been forced to grow up too quickly; war, famine, loss, illness or homelessness, causing them to be serious, concerned and world wise and weary beyond their years.

Sebastien knelt down in front of them to better look them in the eye. He knew he didn’t have much time to make his case and keep the boys safe. He had to be honest, because he knew they wouldn’t trust him otherwise. “The police are going to be investigating what has happened in the street, and it won’t take long for them to see the blood at our front door. If we try to clean it now it will draw attention, and if we leave it, the police will come inside to check there’s nobody hiding inside. If they find you…”

“That can’t happen,” Nicolò said immediately, “They will send us to an orphanage.”

“Or send us back where we came from,” Joe said.

“They will split us up,” Nicolò said, “We can’t be split up.”

Just from those three sentences, Sebastien had been given a much better idea of what the boys were avoiding by hiding out in the house. Nicolò must have come from an orphanage in Italy - had run away from one perhaps? Joe was a bit more of a mystery, but he seemed to be concerned about returning to Tunisia. When he had first met Sebastien he had been hesitant to reveal where he was from. The one thing that was definitely not just speculation, though, was that they were both terrified of being separated from each other.

“They will,” Sebastien said, because that was the truth of it. The police would question the boys, and the boys would either be separated by country, by orphanage, or potentially by adoption further down the road. “But, if you come with us, we can keep you safe and together.”

“For now,” Joe said, watching him, “You will only be taking us with you for a short time.”

“Until things here die down,” Sebastien admitted, “And then we will figure something out for you. But I promise you,” he met Joe’s eyes, and then Nicolò’s, to make sure they knew that he was being deadly serious, “I will make sure that when those decisions are made, you will be involved and will make your own choices, and I promise you that if you do not want to be separated, I will make sure that you are not split up. So this decision right now is also yours, boys. You can choose to stay here, or choose to come with us now for the time being. But if you are going to be coming with us, we will have to leave in the next few minutes, so you must be packed and ready to leave.”

Joe and Nicolò looked at each other, “Police or superheroes?” Joe asked Nicolò, because it was apparently as simple as that. Nicolò didn’t even reply. He just turned towards their bedroom, going to get his things. Joe looked back at Sebastien. “We will be coming with you,” Joe said.

Sebastien swallowed a relieved breath. At least this way, no matter how temporarily the boys would stay with the Old Guard, Sebastien could at least make sure they were given the best and safest homes for the future, and not leave them to the hands of the authorities, who might not be so thoughtful in their decisions of where to send the boys.

Joe turned to follow Nicolò but hesitated, looking back at Sebastien, “You promise?” Joe insisted, “That you will help us stay together? That we can make our own decisions in what happens to us next?”

“I promise,” Sebastien vowed, “And can I trust you?” he asked, “To keep our - ‘superpowers’ - secret?”

“You are keeping us safe,” Joe said, measured, his big brown eyes so emotive, “So we will keep you safe.”

“Thank you Joe,” Sebastien said.

“Thank you,” Joe returned, “For caring.” He took another step after Nicolò and then added “And not dying.”

Sebastien’s lips ticked up into a small smile, and Joe’s did the same in return, before Joe jogged away into the bedroom to help Nicolò gather their things.

Sebastien stood up and went to grab his own bag from his room, which was already packed in case of need of a quick getaway.

“The boys are coming with us,” Sebastien commented to Quynh as he passed her gathering up the last of the bullets littering the floor as he headed to the kitchen to pack up the perishable foods in the kitchen.

“Yey,” she said dryly.

The Old Guard were used to quick turnarounds and crime scene cleans, and while Sebastien had been talking to Nicolò and Joe, Andromache and Quynh had been sorting everything else. Within minutes the house looked like it had been uninhabited for a long time. Joe and Nicolò had their things packed into two tattered looking beach bags.

The Old Guard snuck out the back of the safe house and crept through the dark streets away from the sirens and clamour happening at the front of the house, to where Sebastien had parked his car when he had first arrived, and where Andromache had parked her and Quynh’s.

The decision of cars was unquestioned. As soon as Sebastien opened his car door, Joe and Nicolò were putting their things and themselves in the backseat of his car. Sebastien glanced at Andromache and Quynh as they got into their own car, and Andromache sent him a level look that failed to hide her feeling that this was a last resort idea and not one that she necessarily considered a good idea, before she ducked into the driver’s seat. Sebastien decided to ignore it. He swung himself into his own driver’s seat, chucking his duffel bag onto the passenger seat and holding the bag of food from the kitchen back between the seats.

“You boys hungry?” he asked.

The bag was taken with a ‘thank you’.

And then the Old Guard and their two temporary wards drove away into the night.

***

3rd August 1979  
Goussainville, France

It had been a quiet journey to wherever it was they were going. Nicolò had rooted in his bag for the bed throw from the house that had become his comfort blanket, and shifted closer to Joe. Joe was peering out of the window as the dark world went by, probably trying to figure out where they were going, but when Nicolò edged up beside him Joe snuggled under the blanket as well. Sebastien’s attention was mainly on the road, but he would talk to them every now and again; ask them how they were doing, if they were hungry. Nicolò tried to ask Sebastien about his superpowers, but Sebastien told him that they would discuss it later with Andrea and Quynh when they got to where they were going. Nicolò was practically bursting with curiosity, but he forced the questions down, saving them for later and thinking up other questions he was going to ask.

Nicolò had no doubts that he and Joe had made the right choice leaving with Sebastien, Andrea and Quynh rather than be left to return to the streets until the police investigation went away, or be left to the whim of the police themselves. Nicolò did not want to be sent back to the orphanage in Genoa, or any orphanage in any city or country, and he did not want to be separated from Joe. Joe had previously joked that even if he and Nicolò were caught and put into the same orphanage in France, it was likely that Nicolò would get adopted quickly and Joe would stay in the orphanage forever because no-one would want him. Nicolò hated when Joe made those kind of jokes, because Joe was amazing and Nicolò was sure that everyone else would think so too. Joe was friendly, and playful and funny. He also hated those jokes because it implied that he and Joe would be split up, and Nicolò hated that thought more than anything else. Joe was his best friend. They had helped each other survive. If Joe was taken away from him, Nicolò was certain that his life would be made empty again. Joe was like sunshine, and days without him would be dull and Nicolò did not want to think about such a thing.

Sebastien, Andrea and Quynh were the better option, for now. Nicolò trusted Sebastien, but he did not know whether Sebastien would be able to keep his word that he would make sure that Nicolò and Joe would stay together. Nicolò wasn’t sure if Sebastien could truly guarantee that. But for now Sebastien, Andrea and Quynh were the safest people to be with, as far as Nicolò was concerned, because they were kind, and they weren’t taking Joe away, and they could not die. No better people to be around than good people that could not die, because Nicolò had had enough guardians die and he was only ten.

Several hours into the journey Joe discovered a map book in the pocket of the seat in front and opened it curiously, and Nicolò read over Joe’s arm as they looked at the inscription _‘For Basti le Livre. So you can learn the geography of some places that aren’t France. Q.’_ beautifully handwritten inside the front page.

“Sebastien,” Joe said, “Your surname is le Livre? ‘Book’ in French?”

Sebastien snorted, and glanced at them in the rear-view mirror, “Yes.”

“Sebastien le Book?” Nicolò clarified.

Joe laughed, tipping his head back, and Nicolò realised it was the first time Joe had laughed all day, and it instantly made Nicolò feel more relaxed about being in the back of the car of someone they had put their trust in after less than nine days of knowing them.

“Sebastien Le Book-re,” Joe said when his laughter quieted.

“Coincidental right?” Sebastien was grinning, Nicolò could see, and it was nice to see Sebastien relax a bit more in his seat too as the three of them joked around, “Since I like books so much.”

“Or did you make it your thing because of the name?” Joe pondered.

Sebastien shrugged one idle shoulder, “Maybe, maybe not.”

Eventually Nicolò must have fallen asleep on Joe and Joe must have fallen asleep too, because the next thing Nicolò knew he was abruptly jerking back to wakefulness to see Joe rubbing his own eyes tiredly. The car was stopped, and Sebastien was getting out.

“Where are we?” Nicolò asked Joe.

Joe was always a little slower to wake up than Nicolò, so he blinked sleepily around and said, “I don’t know,” in slurred Italian, "We must have been driving for hours."

“Are we still in France?” Nicolò asked, before covering his ears, “And what is that noise?”

Joe scrunched his face up at the noise, “Is that an aeroplane?”

They scrambled out of the car to see the lights of a plane move overhead; the lowest Nicolò had ever seen a plane fly, and definitely the loudest he had ever heard. Nicolò looked down from the plane to see an old church. It looked abandoned.

“Where are we?” he asked.

“Goussainville Vieux-Pays,” Andrea was the one who answered his question, walking past them from her and Quynh’s car with a bag slung over her shoulder. “A village just outside Paris. It was abandoned about five years ago when the Charles de Gaulle airport opened and it was right in the flight path.”

“And, of course,” Quynh added, having come up behind them so quietly that her voice made Nicolò jump, “It didn’t help that there was a fatal airshow crash here in the year before that. This whole place is a ghost town now.”

“It’s been abandoned?” Joe asked.

“Or it’s haunted,” Quynh said with a sly wink, before leaving them to head towards the church.

Andrea was watching Quynh, shaking her head with an exasperated smile on her face, “It isn’t haunted,” Andrea told them, “Abandoned though, yes. We decided to make ourselves a base here in the church a couple of years ago, but this is the first time we have had to use it. Come inside. It's still too cold out here.”

***

Sebastien had managed to put off the boys’ questions about the Old Guard’s immortality for the first few hours of the drive, and then the boys - surely exhausted from all the emotional shocks of the day - had fallen asleep for the vast majority of the journey. But he knew that they had questions they deserved to have answered, to both feel safe to have come with the Old Guard and trust them with helping them decide what to do next, and also so that they knew how important it was that they keep the Old Guard’s secret a secret. Sebastien had also made certain to tell the boys that while he, Andromache and Quynh would answer any of their questions on arrival at the safe house, he also had warned them that he, Andromache and Quynh would have their own questions for them in turn. The boys had reluctantly agreed.

So, after the safe house was satisfactorily warm, with all the lighting and water working, and some dinner made with the leftovers Sebastien had brought from Nice, the Old Guard sat down with Joe and Nicolò to answer and ask some questions.

The Old Guard answered all of the inevitable questions. Yes, they really were immortal, but yes, one day the immortality could and would end. Yes, they could survive an explosion. Yes, they could regrow limbs. Yes, even a head. No, they couldn’t age. Yes, they were rather old. Etcetera etcetera. 

The boys’ eyes had grown wide at learning that Sebastien had fought for Napoleon, and had grown even wider when Quynh and Andromache’s answers were vague enough to imply that they were much, much older. Thousands of years older.

It was not the first time Sebastien had had to explain his immortality, but somehow it had been the easiest explanation so far. Whether it was because Joe and Nicolò just held different views than others that had come before, or were too young to truly comprehend or understand all that living for hundreds and thousands meant, and the burden that could be, or just that the fairly recent creation of fictional superheroes with extraordinary powers had somehow made immortality plausible in their youthful eyes, Sebastien did not know. But Sebastien remembered the disbelief and denial of his eldest son, the downright fear of his middle son, the anger and devastation of his youngest…and was ultimately relieved that these children, younger now than Sebastien’s children had been then, were not terrified of him. Instead they were interested and amazed and firing questions every time a new one came to mind. Maybe, when the boys grew older and understood better all involved in immortality, they would grow to be resentful but…  
Sebastien shook himself. No. The boys would not be with the Old Guard that long. They would likely one day look back at these few weeks as a distant, fantastical memory, or might forget, but Sebastien would not be with them to face any repercussions of a change of heart.

Finally Joe and Nicolò's questions died down, and then the Old Guard commenced their own.

“In order to help you both,” Sebastien led the conversation after a pointed look from Andromache, “We need to know a bit more about you and why you were living in Nice on your own.” The boys were exchanging nervous glances and shifting uncomfortably, but Sebastien knew he and his immortal sisters needed to know. “Where are your parents?”

“Dead,” Nicolò said.

Joe, normally so direct with eye contact, was unable to meet anyone’s eye, “Dead,” Joe also said.

Neither of the boys said anything more, and wouldn’t look him in the eye. Sebastien glanced at Andromache and Quynh. Quynh was sitting back in her chair, her arms crossed over her chest, eyeing the boys with a mix of suspicion and curiosity. Andromache just looked impatient and serious; needing to know enough to decide what should be done to help the boys.

“Nicolò,” Sebastien said, when Andromache gestured for him to continue his questioning, “I picked up from what you said earlier that you were in an orphanage. Where was it in Italy?”

“It was a catholic one,” Nicolò said, “In Genoa.”

“Did you run away?”

“Yes,” Nicolò said stubbornly, “It was horrible there.”

“Were they cruel to you?”

Nicolò turned his head pointedly away. “I did not like it there. It was not home.”

“Ok,” Sebastien said carefully, “How long were you at the orphanage for?”

“Two months, I think.”

“And where were you before?”

Nicolò looked at him then, his sea-glass eyes suddenly shiny, his little jaw tightening as he swallowed heavily. “I lived with my Grandmother. She died.”

“I am sorry Nicolò,” Sebastien said gently, “Do you have any other family that we could contact? That the orphanage did not know or think to look for?”

Nicolò shook his head. “My other grandparents are dead. One died of illness and two died when my parents were children; in the war when the fighting was happening in Italy. My parents did not have siblings. And they and my sister…” his lip wobbled dangerously and a lone tear escaped his eye and slipped down his cheek. Joe reached out to hold Nicolò’s hand. It was clear that Joe already knew all of this. “They died in a fire in our house when I was six. I was the only one that lived. I stayed with my Grandmother until she died when I was eight. I ran away from the orphanage they put me in after that.”

For any human being that immeasurable loss would be a devastating blow. Even now two hundred years later Sebastien mourned his wife and sons and grandchildren, to the point that he could no longer bear to keep track of his ancestors for fear of grieving for them too. That a ten year old boy had lost his parents and sister so tragically, and then his grandmother, and had then run away and been homeless in the space of only four years was horrifying.

“I am very sorry, Nicolò,” Sebastien said softly, empathetically, because he knew. He knew what loss was like. “I am very sorry that that happened to you, and to your family.”

Nicolò sniffed and nodded, his eyes back on the tabletop.

“And thank you for telling me,” Sebastien said, and Nicolò glanced up at him long enough to give him another quick nod. Sebastien then looked at Joe, and Joe squirmed in his seat. His eyes were already shining having heard Nicolò tell his story.

Sebastien had guessed Nicolò’s orphanage escape, but had had no clue of the suffering that had come before it. Joe was even more of a mystery, and from the look in Joe’s eyes, it was going to be no less tragic a tale. And it was heartbreaking.

“Joe?” he urged him, “Please. This is important so that we can help you.”

“I…” Joe started, looking lost at first, but his expression finally hardened with determination as he found the words and launched into his own story like if he didn’t get it all out at once, he wasn’t going to say anything at all; “My name is Yusuf al-Kaysani. Yusuf ibn Ibrahim ibn Muhammad al-Kaysani. I never knew my mother, she died giving birth to me and…well, my father raised me. We moved closer to my father’s family, so I grew up not knowing my mother’s side of the family. I never met them. Three years ago me, my father, my grandparents, my aunt, uncle and cousins hired a boat. We were going on holiday to Italy and one night there was a storm and…” Joe used the hand not still grasping Nicolò’s to wipe fiercely at his eyes, “I washed up on an Italian beach and was taken to hospital. I found out everyone else had drowned.” Joe came to an abrupt halt, dragged from his story by the loud bang Quynh had made when she had involuntarily jerked and kicked the chair next to her. Sebastien saw Andromache grasp onto Quynh’s wrist under the table where the boys wouldn’t see. “They…” Joe continued, voice staggered with emotion, of grief for his family, “They were talking about sending me back to Tunisia but I couldn’t, I couldn’t go back and live without them there. Not without my father. I don’t know any of my mother’s relations - or even if I have any left at all - and even if they did, they wouldn’t want me. We’d be strangers. So I ran away from the hospital.”  
  
The story was somehow even more tragic and traumatic than Sebastien had feared, and he almost couldn’t look into the pain he saw shining so clearly from Joe’s expressive eyes; it was a pain Sebastien understood and knew intimately, but to see it so raw and reflected back at him was hard to withstand. Once again he found it incredible that someone so young could lose so many loved ones and be through something so devastating, and still be as strong and boldly bright as Joe. Just as he had done with Nicolò, Sebastien made sure Joe knew how sorry he was for what had happened and for what Joe had been through. 

Sebastien found out a little more from each of them as the evening wore on; like floodgates opening, the boys revealed more and more about their pasts that they had locked away for so long but to each other. Nicolò’s surname was Di Genova. Joe’s father had worked in arts and trade, and his contacts in Italy meant that Joe knew Italian along with his Arabic, and French, which was also spoken widely in Tunisia. When the boys had run away from the orphanage and the hospital they had both travelled north along the coast of Italy by hiding in the backs of vehicles or hitchhiking, with the intention to cross the French-Italian border into France and thus better lose the authorities looking for each of them. They had travelled to the nearest popular southern French city across the border, and met each other living homeless in Nice. And, possibly the most morbid yet interesting fact of all; both of their hearts had apparently stopped in the incidents that had killed their families. Joe had not been breathing when found and resuscitated on the beach, and Nicolò had flat-lined and been revived from smoke inhalation.

Quynh and Andromache had excused themselves during that last tale; Quynh’s trauma of drowning forcing them both to remove themselves, but Sebastien also knew that Andromache still had her own traumatic memories of being repeatedly burned at the stake after Quynh had been put in the iron maiden.

So it was only Sebastien there (and he was glad of it) when Nicolò shyly said “Maybe we were always meant to find the only people in the world who cannot die, Sebastien, because we both almost died too, for a little while. But we didn’t. We aren’t immortal like you, but we didn’t die.”

And while Sebastien was still flawed and crumbling from Nicolò’s words, and still marvelling that the boys had accepted the bombshell of immortality so positively, he was caught off guard once again when Joe agreed and tearfully added “It is good to know that at least for a while we are going to be living with people who can’t die and leave us alone again.”

Sebastien’s heart broke for them, and it was fatherly instinct - still intact even after hundreds of years - that had him opening his arms to allow the boys a hug if they needed it. He was amazed at the speed in which the boys rushed to hug him, Nicolò looping his arms around Sebastien’s neck and Joe clutching onto Sebastien’s waist. It was the first time Sebastien had hugged anyone other than Andromache and Quynh in a long, long time.

“Thank you for taking us with you Sebastien,” Nicolò said into Sebastien’s shoulder, and it was in that moment that Sebastien truly realised how doomed he was.

His heart, which had broken for the boys’ trials and traumas, had healed over almost scarily fast with the stubborn determination that Sebastien wasn’t just going to do everything in his power to protect the two children in his arms, but he was going to raise them. That was the only way he was ever going to know for certain that the boys were going to be kept together, and were going to be kept happy and healthy. They deserved that. And if Andromache and Quynh had a problem with that then hell, Sebastien would just have to find a way to raise Joe and Nicolò on his own.


	4. 1979 (Part 4)

7th August 1979  
Goussainville, France

If looks could kill, Quynh would have had Sebastien’s immortality working overtime. Sebastien had known four days ago that he was going to raise Nicolò and Joe, but he had decided it wise to wait a few days before bringing it up with Andromache and Quynh.

On the second day in Goussainville Sebastien had received a phone call from the authorities in Nice informing him that the property he owned there had been searched as part of an investigation, and Sebastien had acted appropriately surprised and understanding of the police’s decision to check the uninhabited house. There was no suspicion pointed at him or the team at all; they had spent their time in Nice discreetly enough to go unnoticed. Following that, things had settled quickly. Nicolò and Joe had been as well behaved, polite and charming as they had been during their time spent with them in the Nice safe house. Andromache and Quynh had been voluntarily involving themselves in conversations with the boys once again. And despite avoiding asking the boys any more about their pasts - the fire and the drowning in particular - Quynh and Andromache had shared a few stories of their own. Quynh had also started calling Joe ‘Yusuf’ as soon as she had learned what his birth name was.

It all seemed very positive, so Sebastien had thought it was as good a time as any to broach the subject of keeping the boys with them.

It was not, as it turned out, a good time at all.

Quynh was furious with him, and Sebastien made sure to draw Quynh and Andromache far enough away from the boys to be out of their earshot. The boys were busy drawing and chattering away to each other, paying the Old Guard no attention, and for that Sebastien was relieved, because he already knew the way this conversation - or rather, argument - was probably going to head.

“You cannot keep them, Sebastien.”

“Keep them?!” Sebastien hissed, glancing at the boys, “You talk like they would be pets, Quynh.”

“And you talk like they would be sons,” Quynh countered harshly, and Sebastien tried to remember that she was only being cruel to be kind, even as his heart instantly recoiled at her suggestion that he was trying to replace his sons with Joe and Nicolò.

“They won’t be…” Sebastien sighed, tugging at his hair, before trying again, “This isn’t about my sons. This is about two boys who need a home and someone to keep them safe and happy and together. The only people who can truly ensure that are us.”

“Of _course_ it is about your sons,” Quynh shot back, “Of course it is! You still mourn them! You see two boys in need of help and you think ‘maybe I can help these two since I couldn’t help my own’. I know you, Basti!”

“That is _not_ what this is about!” Sebastien insisted, “I just want to help them.”

“What you're suggesting is _far_ more than just helping them! Those two are no different from all the other children we have aided over the years and you have never shown an interest like this before, so why start now?”

“These two are the only ones to have lived with us, and fitted in with us like this. They are the only ones who know we are immortal - and they _accept_ it, Quynh! They think it is _cool_.”

“‘Cool’?!” Quynh snorted, but was not, unfortunately, amused, “Do not use that word, Basti, it does not suit your old French tongue.”

Sebastien rolled his eyes, “I don’t know why you are so against this Quynh! I have seen you these last few days telling the boys stories about your history - you enjoy it when they hang off your every word! I don’t know why you are protesting this so much!”

“Because they think we are good and ‘cool’ _now_ ,” Quynh growled, “But will they think that when they are adults? When they grow older and older and you don’t age and they grow old or grow ill like your sons and then…then they will not find your un-shareable immortality so ‘cool’ anymore. The man that raised them will look no older. He will look younger than them. And they will resent it. And they will look for ways to harness it, or they will find ways to sell it.”

It hit too close to home, but still Sebastien pressed on. “I don’t for a minute believe they would do that to us.”

“Or,” Quynh continued pointedly, “Or there is the other alternative of course. There is the chance that they will stay good and nice just like this but then they will just…die. They will die and their deaths will break you all over again in a matter of eight decades. Or less, if mortality doesn’t let them live even that long. They will be two tiny specks on your timeline but they will destroy you for years longer than they will ever exist in the first place. You just wait. You will see.”

“I guess I _will_ see, because I intend to raise them whether you agree to it or not.” Sebastien stopped, collected his nerve and then said, “I will take time out of the Old Guard if I have to.”

Quynh’s expression grew even colder. “You would choose two mortal children you barely know over your immortal sisters you have loved for two hundred years?”

“It would only be until they were old enough to go out on their own and fend for themselves,” Sebastien argued, “Twelve years at most. Like you just said, Quynh; it would be the tiniest of specks on my timeline. And even less on yours. You wouldn’t miss me for twelve years.”

“How do you know?!” Quynh stabbed a finger into his chest that was far less delicate than it looked, with a warrior's strength behind it, “You do not know how much I cherish you Basti! You have no idea because you are too busy wallowing in self-pity half the time! You want me to happily stand back for twelve years while you raise two mortals who will eventually die and put you right back where you started; a miserable alcoholic wreck all over again because you promise you do not see them as substitute sons but that, Sebastien, is a lie. You do already. And it is no good for you.” Her expression and tone cooled further; icy, intended to wound; “I have given you all the warning you need but I know you will just ignore me and do what you want anyway. But you heed this, little brother; don’t expect me and Andromache to pick up the alcohol-laced pieces of you when they’re dead.”

And with that she turned on her heeled boot and stalked out of the church.

***

Andromache did not follow after Quynh. She stayed standing right where she was, watching Sebasien let out a breath of frustration. Sebastien glanced at her, and seemed surprised she was still there and not going after Quynh.

“That went well,” Sebastien joked tightly.

“Do you not think,” Andromache said, deciding to take a calmer, stricter approach with Sebastien than Quynh had managed, “That Quynh and I have not raised mortal children before?” Andromache could see how much that caught Sebastien by surprise. He started and opened his mouth to exclaim something, but Andromache carried on before he could say anything; “Because we have. We have done it several times over the millennia. The main reason Quynh does not want you to raise mortal children, Sebastien, is because she already knows what it feels like to be either heartbroken by betrayal or heartbroken by their inevitable deaths. The last time we raised one was five hundred years ago. And we vowed to each other never again. We couldn’t take the loss anymore.”

Andromache and Quynh had tried. They had tried so many damn times. There had been one or two children, or even small groups, that Andromache and Quynh had taken in because they had been sure that the safest home was with them; that they could only trust themselves to ensure the children’s safety. There had been children who had not survived childhood because of illness or injury. There had been a small number of children that once grown, discovered that their guardians didn’t age (and one or two had found out that they couldn’t die either) and they had become afraid, angry or even jealous, and all those that found out the truth, no matter how many years Andromache and Quynh had raised them beforehand, had pulled away or wished to never see them again, or tried to expose them in their fear and anger. But for the most part Andromache and Quynh had been careful in making sure the majority of the children they raised to adulthood were oblivious to the truth, but that had also meant sending them off into their adult lives and never seeing them again. Many of those children ended up having families of their own, and lived full lives after Andromache and Quynh, but that still meant looking them up decades later to find out they had died.

Andromache and Quynh had mourned each and every one; the ones that died of old age decades after Andromache and Quynh had last laid eyes on them, the ones that died of illness, the ones that didn’t survive childhood, and even the ones that had turned against them. Then there had finally come the day that Quynh had turned to Andromache, red-eyed from sobbing over the freshly covered grave of their last mortal child - Eva, her name had been, dead at twenty six, having barely even gotten a chance to live - and Quynh had said to Andromache ‘I cannot do this anymore, Andromache. I cannot.’ And Andromache had agreed, because she couldn’t do it anymore either.

“If that is the case then shit, I can understand why she’s upset and trying to warn me off, Andromache. But…” Sebastien started, because Sebastien could be as stubborn as a mule, “But she won’t even give me the chance to try it myself.”

Andromache ultimately agreed with Quynh. If Sebastien raised Joe and Nicolò as his own, maybe for a while it would help him come to terms with, or distract him from, the loss of his real sons but eventually, inevitably, Joe and Nicolò would die. And while maybe there _was_ a chance that raising Joe and Nicolò could help Sebastien heal from all his grieving, there was a much higher chance of Sebastien landing right back at square once again the second neither Joe or Nicolò lived anymore.

“She loves you Sebastien,” Andromache said, “She is being harsh because she cares. She’s worried you’ll relapse into what you were like before we helped you reduce your alcoholism to ‘a minor problem’. And to be honest with you, I’m worried too. It will be like the death of your last son all over again.”

Sebastien had been a wreck for a long time, and although Andromache knew that Sebastien still grieved just as much for the family and the mortal life he had lost as he did back then, he had gotten better internalising it over the decades; not so much healing as hiding it. His alcohol intake had gone from excessive to just regularly-and-often. But any little reminder could set him back, and the worst case scenario after Joe and Nicolò died would be that Sebastien wouldn’t just relapse, but that he would relapse by two hundred years.

“But it would be different this time,” Sebastien insisted, and Andromache could see the determination in his eyes; Sebastien truly believed what he was saying. “It wouldn’t be like my sons because Nicolò and Joe know who and what we are. They already know we won’t age as they do, and they don’t hate us for it. And I know that this decision would be as much to Joe and Nicolò’s benefit as it would be me to mine; they need a guardian who will be there for them for as long as they need one. If I take the time out from jobs so that I can keep them in a safe place, one location; I haven’t lived in the same place for more than a year for a long, long time. This might be good for me too…this, this could finally help me come to terms with my immortality, properly.” And that there, that was the problem. Sebastien had never fully accepted his immortality; it often angered and devastated him that he could not die. He had read many books on science and myths and legends in the hopes of finding ‘a way out’ of it. His volatile relationship with his own immortality had made him reckless and rash in his decisions. “Please, Andromache. I know you and Quynh think it is a stupid idea and a mistake. But I won’t know for sure until I try. And yes, it could end badly, but it could instead be the best decision I have ever made. Please Andromache, let me make my own mistakes.”

“You say that as if you don’t make enough of those already,” Andromache shot back, but with much less passion behind her words. Sebastien was convinced that this was going to help him, and once Sebastien had fixed his mind on an idea it was hard to get him away from it. Sebastien did everything with the best of intentions. It was just that he did not always consider every possible consequence of his actions.

But on that logic, Andromache had to concede, in her concern maybe she was not considering all of the possible consequences either. She and Quynh were so quick to assume that the worst would come of Sebastien raising Nicolò and Joe, while there was that chance, however small, that it might actually help Sebastien in all the ways he hoped it would. It was a choice between something that could either be a rare golden and precious opportunity for them, or a complete and utter disaster. Andromache doubted there was much in between.

And, of course, in the end that wasn’t even the decision Sebastien was asking her to make. Sebastien had already made up his mind. Andromache knew full well that the only decision she had to make was whether to leave Sebastien to raise two children completely alone for twelve years, or help him however much she or Quynh were able to, and be a part of Joe and Nicolò’s lives and upbringing. But she could not make that decision without Quynh’s input.

“Fine,” she said, finally, “If you want to take time away from the Guard to raise Joe and Nicolò then I will agree to it. Pick one of the safe houses to make a home, or find a new one. Raise them.”

“And you won’t even consider joining me in raising them?”

“I can’t do that to Quynh again if she is not ready. And to tell the truth, I don’t know if I’m ready either.” Andromache regarded him steadily, “But, I cannot deny that they are sweet, intelligent children, and we would have run out of time on the job in Nice without their help. We would still be chasing Rourke right now if it wasn’t for them. So, I am prepared to give my blessing to you, Sebastien. But please, please, in decades’ time when the last one of them dies, please for the love of us, please do not make me regret this.”

“I won’t,” Sebastien vowed, “I promise I won’t.”

“Then you have my blessing to pick a safe house or buy a new one to settle in. Make it a home.”

“Do you want me to let you know which house I choose?” Sebastien asked, “So you and Quynh can come and visit. If or when you decide you are ready.” He looked so relieved and thankful at her blessing, and so hopeful for her involvement, that Andromache nearly couldn’t look him in the eye.

Andromache knew that to them twelve years was not a long time, but she also knew that she could not abandon one of her own immortals without good reason. Sebastien was her brother, and although Andromache had more concerns and fears than hope and optimism over his plan, she knew there was really only one answer she could and would give him in order to keep him as close as possible.

“Let me know where you decide to settle,” she said, “When you leave for the house Quynh and I may go our own way for a while _but,_ ” she said, when Sebastien started to look disappointed at the thought of not seeing them for over a decade, “We may check in, from time to time.”

***

“What do you think they were talking about?” Nicolò asked, watching Sebastien and Andromache arguing in the kitchen. Quynh had stormed out over five minutes ago.

Joe looked up from his drawing. It was a drawing of some of the features of the church wall and the weapons rack opposite them, and it was beautiful and detailed and Nicolò had half a mind to hide his own picture of the church, which looked childish in comparison, even though Joe had earnestly complimented it several times already.

“They will be arguing about us, I imagine,” Joe said, “And what to do with us.”

“Already?” Nicolò squirmed in his seat, “I know Sebastien said we would be staying with them just for a short while but I didn’t know he meant _this_ short.”

“Me neither,” Joe said, watching Sebastien and Andromache closely now that Nicolò had pointed them out.

Nicolò tapped his pencil nervously against the table top. It was his biggest fear that Sebastien, Andromache and Quynh would leave them somewhere, thinking it was a nice place, and as soon as they would leave, Nicolò would be split up from Joe, or the people would be horrible, or either he or Joe would be adopted and taken away from the other one. And Sebastien, Andromache and Quynh would never check up on them again, so would never know that they had tried to help but actually left them in a horrible place. It was awful to think about, especially when living with the Old Guard (as they apparently called themselves) and Joe in the house at Nice and now in the church at Goussainville was the most at home Nicolò had felt since his Grandma had died. He felt safe with the Old Guard, and he also felt happy. He liked Sebastien, Andromache and Quynh, and he knew they were good people. He knew Sebastien wanted the best for Nicolò and Joe, and wanted to help them. But Nicolò knew that the scenario he most hoped for was unlikely to come true.

“I don’t want to go anywhere else,” Nicolò confessed to Joe quietly, “I like it here with you and them.”

“You want us to stay with Sebastien don’t you?”

“Don’t _you_?”

Joe looked at him then, a small, sad smile on his face, and kept his voice quiet as he admitted “I think if I wanted to stay with any adult I would like it to be Sebastien, Andromache and Quynh. They are good people. And they know so much, and have travelled so much and experienced so much. They could teach us so much. And they like us too, or at least I think they do. I would like nothing more than to stay with them; especially because we already know them, rather than being sent away to another unknown place. But we can’t rely on that. These people are hundreds and thousands of years old, and they live different lives to normal people. We can’t expect them to drop everything or change their ways to help us. I don’t want to go anywhere else either, but I don’t think we are going to get a chance to stay. So I’m trying not to get my hopes up and be disappointed. I’m trying not to hope too much.”

“I wish they would,” Nicolò said, simply, stubbornly.

Joe smiled at him again, eyes scrunching up to hide the fact that the smile didn't meet them, and he didn’t reply, turning back to his drawing. Joe was afraid of hoping and Nicolò could understand why. Nicolò had hoped nothing else bad would happen and that he would not have to live with anyone else after moving in with his Grandma, but that had not come true either. Maybe Nicolò should not hope. But maybe he could pray instead.

***

Sebastien approached the boys that evening to tell them the news and let them choose what they wanted to do. They had curled up close together on one of the large armchairs with some books, but they must not have been paying the books much attention, as their eyes almost simultaneously looked up at him as he walked over to them.

He crouched down in front of the armchair, and wasn’t sure why the boys both looked like they were preparing themselves for bad news.

“Nicolò, Joe,” Sebastien said, “I have a question to ask you.”

Neither of the boys said anything. They continued to watch him. Joe’s eyes were shiny and his lips were thin. Nicolò was utterly still, his fingers tightening on the edges of the book he was holding.

“I was wondering…” Sebastien started, watching them thoughtfully. He wondered if maybe they were afraid Sebastien was going to tell them it was time for them to leave the Old Guard - they had seemed happy during the last few days staying with them - and maybe they wanted to stay. Or it could just have been wishful thinking; the Old Guard probably didn’t seem exactly ideal examples of model parent material. “I have been looking into options for you,” Sebastien changed tack, and saw Joe flinch a little at his words, and Sebastien’s confidence that Joe and Nicolò did not want to go anywhere else strengthened a little, “And I have realised that I cannot promise that you will be kept safe, happy and together if I send you anywhere else. The only person I can rely on to try their best to be that kind of guardian to you is me. It would be an honour to be your guardian until you are old enough not to need one anymore. But the choice is yours. If you would prefer to go to another…” He never got to finish his sentence.

The boys had been looking increasingly excited and relieved as his speech had gone on and he was cut off by Joe whooping with joy and grabbing Sebastien’s shoulder in one hand and wrapping his other arm around Nicolò’s neck to pull him into a hug. Nicolò was beaming the biggest smile Sebastien had seen on his face yet.

“Really?” Nicolò asked him, “You really want us?”

“We can stay with you?” Joe clarified, eyes bright and own smile almost blinding.

Sebastien laughed, a little choked up, as he said “If that’s what you want to do,” and found himself in the middle of a loud, happy, chattering hug.

***

14th August 1979  
Goussainville, France

A week later arrangements had been finalised among the Old Guard. Sebastien was planning to take Joe and Nicolò back south. He had told Andromache that he planned to look for a new house somewhere rural in the south of France, somewhere near the West coast; a safe enough distance away from Nice. Andromache and Quynh were not going with them. They planned to travel until a new job revealed itself. Sebastien was going to let them know the address of wherever he decided to buy, but Andromache had warned him not to expect them any time soon.

She and Quynh had both been struggling with memories of their own raised children, and of all that they had learned about Nicolò and Joe’s pasts; fire and water causing them so much pain. They were afraid of getting too attached, so had come to the decision that it was best for them to keep their distance and only visit intermittently during Joe and Nicolò’s upbringing, for however long that took.

Still, it was hard to pretend that Joe and Nicolò were not incredibly lovable, as Nicolò hugged her; barely half her height and told her “I will miss you Andromache.”

“I will miss you too Nicolò,” Andromache said, but held back any ‘I will see you soon’ falsities.

“I hope you will come and visit,” Joe was saying to Quynh; both he and Nicolò had been wary to hug her until she had rolled her eyes and gave them a half-hug at the same time and a pat on their shoulders.

“I do not know when we will next be able to visit, Yusuf,” Quynh told him, matter-of-fact.

“Well, I am looking forward to whenever you do,” Joe shrugged it off amiably, “I’m already looking forward to hearing more of your stories.”

“Of course you are,” Quynh smirked at him, and Andromache was surprised when Quynh actually reached out to ruffle his hair, “My stories are the best.”

“You tell them in the best way,” Nicolò agreed, before glancing at Andromache sheepishly, “Sorry Andromache.”

“Oh she already knows that I am the superior storyteller,” Quynh brushed Nicolò’s worries aside.

Andromache rolled her eyes, and focused on receiving a hug from Joe. “Have good travels,” Joe said tentatively, “Maybe we can join you some day.”

“Maybe,” Andromache returned, noncommittal, but Joe just smiled at her, big and wide, like just the chance at such a thing was amazing to him.

“I am sorry if you feel we are taking Sebastien away from you,” Nicolò said, shifting awkwardly - the boy was far too astute sometimes - “We never meant to.”

“We know that,” Andromache said, “We have made our decisions and Sebastien has made his, and we are sure there is no better person than Sebastien to be your guardian.”

Of that there was no doubt. Sebastien had already been a father in his mortal life and Andromache had no doubt that he would make a brilliant guardian and raise the boys well. The problem was not Sebastien’s ability as a guardian, it was how he would handle not being one anymore after his wards had gone. But Andromache tried not to think that far ahead - the distant future for a mortal but the near-future for her - and did not want to contemplate the demise of Joe and Nicolò anymore. She had heard enough of that during the arguments she and Quynh had had with Sebastien. No, she was done warning Sebastien about the boys’ future deaths, and was willing to let him focus on their lives first.

She felt a little emotional as Sebastien held up a hand in farewell out the window as he drove his car away from their abandoned church in Goussainville, Joe and Nicolò looking back at her and Quynh through the rear window and waving at them until they were too far away to see anymore.

“Good riddance,” Quynh said.

Andromache knew that she didn’t really mean it. Quynh was being prickly and rude to Sebastien and distancing herself from the children in order to better protect herself. Andromache reached out to take Quynh’s hand, squeezing it gently. “You will miss them really.”

“No,” Quynh said adamantly, “No, I won’t. The further away we keep from all of that, the better Andromache. We can deal with Sebastien’s broken heart when it comes to it, but I don’t think we’d be able to deal with our own as well.”

Andromache sighed. “You’re right.”

Quynh turned to kiss Andromache’s cheek, “I always am.”

***

17th September 1979  
Sanguinet, France

Sebastien bought a house on the South West coast of France. He had considered other countries to base himself, Joe and Nicolò; Belgium, the United Kingdom, the Netherlands, Switzerland, but in the end he decided to keep them in his home country, since it was the language other than Italian that Nicolò and Joe shared the most proficiency in.

It had been over a month since he had taken the boys and left Andromache and Quynh behind in Goussainville. He had sent his new address to them as soon as he had bought the house, but he hadn’t had a response, and didn’t expect one. He did not know when he would next see them, but at least they knew where to find him when they were ready.

His new address - his new _home_ with the two boys he had committed himself to raise - was on the outskirts of Sanguinet in the Landes Department of France. It was a quiet, picturesque commune surrounded by forest land and close to a natural park, but also not far from the beach and only an hour or so drive out of the city of Bordeaux. It was a quaint looking but spacious enough house with three bedrooms, and plenty of outdoor space to play football.

Football had been one of Sebastien’s main bonding activities with the boys since meeting them. Both of them enjoyed football, and supported their own countries’ teams in international competitions. They loved to play it and were always greatly determined when working together to try to tackle the ball off Sebastien.

Sebastien managed to dodge around Nicolò but was then caught out by Joe, and Joe yelled in triumph, “Take that le Book-re!” he taunted good-naturedly, passing the ball to Nicolò.

“Yusuf,” Sebastien warned.

“Oh I’m in trouble Nicolò,” Joe grinned, wide and bright, “He never calls me ‘Yusuf’ unless I’m in trouble.”

Sebastien picked Joe up, letting him kick and protest with a peel of laughter, and put him aside.

“I’m pretty sure that’s cheating,” Nicolò informed him, “Le Book-re.”

“Don’t you start Nicolò,” Sebastien said, “Don’t let him be a bad influence on you.”

Joe grinned again, intentionally innocent and big eyed, and sent a wink at Nicolò who nearly tripped over the ball.

“If you carry on with this boys, I’ll make you start your English lessons early,” Sebastien threatened half-heartedly.

“Oh no!” Joe cried out, in English, “Not the English language!”

“It is a ridiculous language,” Nicolò agreed.

Sebastien, forever the Frenchman, could only reply with “Oui. But it’s important that you learn it.”

Joe flopped dramatically on the ground and Sebastien was so busy watching Joe’s theatrics that Nicolò dodged around him to score a goal between their makeshift goal posts.

“Was all that a distraction just so you could score a goal?” Sebastien asked, secretly impressed.

Joe smiled up at him from the grass, “Got you, le Book-re.”

***

21st October 1979  
Sanguinet, France

Joe woke up with a start. He looked around wildly to try and figure out what it was that had caused him to wake up so abruptly. It didn’t take long for him to see that Nicolò was sitting up in his bed across the room, sobbing into his hands.

“Nicolò?” Joe asked, concerned, and he immediately got out of bed to go to his best friend. “Nicolò are you ok?”

“Joe?” Nicolò sobbed, face still buried in his hands.

“It’s me,” Joe said, “Was it another nightmare?”

Joe had slept in the same room as Nicolò for over two years now so he knew Nicolò having nightmares was a common thing. It was nearly always the same nightmare; Nicolò waking up in the night to the choking thickness of smoke in the air and the heat of flames and the sound of screaming. Joe had nightmares too sometimes - about storms and water - but Nicolò seemed to have nightmares much more. This one, though, was the first one Nicolò had had since moving to their new home with Sebastien.

Joe decided to do what had worked in the past to make Nicolò feel better. He crawled onto the bed and under the covers next to Nicolò.

“It’s ok,” Joe told him, “It’s safe here. There’s no fire. Look!”

Nicolò peered through his fingers, his breath hitching. Almost exactly at the same time Sebastien entered the room. Joe felt Nicolò freeze next to him.

“Boys?” Sebastien asked. He looked tired and disorientated like he had just woken up himself. “What’s wrong? I thought I heard somebody scream?”

“Nicolò had a nightmare,” Joe said.

Sebastien’s face softened when he saw that Nicolò was crying, “Oh Nicolò, mon fils,” he walked straight over to the bed and Joe moved over Nicolò and closer to the wall to leave space for Sebastien to sit down.

Sebastien gathered Nicolò into his arms, and Nicolò started crying again, clutching onto Sebastien like he was…well, Joe glanced away, swallowing, because he was about to think that Nicolò was clutching onto Sebastien like he was a life raft, but the thought immediately struck and chilled him to the core. Joe instinctively edged closer to Sebastien and Nicolò.

Sebastien noticed him moving and reached out further to wrap his arm around Joe as well. “Joe?” Sebastien asked him.

Joe shook his head, “I’m fine. It’s Nicolò that had the nightmare.”

He could just about make out Sebastien smiling at him in the dim light, and a hand fondly and gently cuffed his jaw in acknowledgment before Sebastien focused on calming down Nicolò, encouraging him to talk about the nightmare if he wanted to.

With Nicolò growing calmer, and Joe no longer in so much need to comfort him with Sebastien there, other than the fact that one of Joe’s hands was still being clasped tightly by Nicolò’s, Joe began to drop off back to sleep against Sebastien’s shoulder.

He woke up later - how long later he was not sure - by Sebastien encouraging him to lie down and tucking him into bed next to Nicolò.

“I hope you sleep well for the rest of the night,” Sebastien told them, “Remember that you’re safe here. I will keep you as safe as I possibly can. So let me know if you have any more nightmares, ok? Don’t keep them to yourselves. That means you too, Joe.”

“Ok Booker,” Joe mumbled, half-asleep again.

Sebastien’s hands stilled, before Joe felt one of them brush over his hair. “Goodnight boys.”

And Joe fell back to sleep, Nicolò already breathing and sleeping much easier beside him.

***

12th December 1979  
Sanguinet, France

It took only four months for Sebastien to open the door to find Andromache and Quynh on the other side.

Sebastien blinked, “Have you come to…”

“Visit,” Quynh chipped in, “Just visit.”

Sebastien nodded in understanding and hugged them both, “I am so glad to have you here. The boys will be excited to see you.”

“Of course they will after four months of just your company, Basti,” Quynh teased, nudging him fondly on her way past, “And really Basti, you settling down an hour’s drive away from Bordeaux? Must you forever curse me with French wine?” And then she was gone, disappeared into the house.

“Make yourself at home,” Sebastien called back to her, tone deadpan. He turned to smile at Andromache, who was inspecting him closely, “It is good to see you both Andromache. Quynh seems ok?”

“She’s fine,” Andromache said, still regarding him, “You seem happy, Sebastien.”

“I _am_ happy.”

“It's always nice to see you happy,” Andromache said, sincere, reaching out to squeeze his arm, before walking past him into the house “Where are the boys?”

“Exploring the forest. They will be back soon enough. How long are you planning to stay for?” he could not help but sound hopeful.

“Until the adoption papers are sorted out,” Andromache said distractedly, already taking stock of everything in the room; forever aware and assessing of her surroundings.

“Wait, Andromache…adoption papers?”

“Of course,” Andromache focused again as she looked back at him, “You’ll have to adopt them. Their birth certificates and records are…”

“Wait! Wait!” Sebastien held up a hand to stall her, “Hang on a second!” He watched her, understanding slowly beginning to dawn, “What exactly have you two been doing the last four months?”

“We knew you had your hands full, so in our travels we may have spent a little time in Italy and Tunisia.”

Sebastien was stopped in his tracks, humbled by Andromache and Quynh’s thoughtfulness and help. He should have known not to worry that Andromache and Quynh had washed their hands of him until his years of raising Joe and Nicolò were over. He had, not for the first time, underestimated his immortal sisters’ love for him. They had gone out of their way to help him, despite not fully supporting his decision in the first place. His love for them grew yet again.

“You were looking into the situations with Nicolò and Joe?” Sebastien stated the obvious, as he and Andromache reached where Quynh had sprawled out on the sofa.

“We did,” Andromache said.

“Nice place this, Basti,” Quynh told him, “It’s nice and remote. Forest on one side, sea not far on the other. The city an hour away. You have picked well.” She raised the glass in acknowledgment of her approval; a drink already in her hand.

“I thought you hated the French wine,” he teased.

“When it is the only wine available it has to do,” she countered, “And I notice there are only three bottles of alcohol in the rack.”

“I haven’t been drinking as much in the last few months,” Sebastien confessed, “I want to set a good example so I just have the odd glass in an evening, and the odd sip from my flask, obviously.”

Quynh smiled at him, reaching out to pull him down by the front of his shirt enough to kiss his cheek, “I’m proud of you, Basti.”

He smiled at her, “Thanks Quynh.” He stood back upright and turned back to Andromache, “Did you find anything out about Joe and Nicolò?”

“We looked into whether they were still being searched for,” Andromache said, “And we tracked down their birth certificates and records.”

“And?”

“Nicolò’s name is still registered as missing, but the authorities aren’t actively investigating it anymore. Word of the al-Kaysani boat accident and Yusuf’s survival was reported in Tunisia when it first happened, and the authorities tried to track down some more of Yusuf’s close relatives.”

“No luck?”

Andromache shook her head, “They didn’t find anyone and nobody came forward either.”

“So he’s registered as missing too?”

Andromache shook her head, “It sounds like there was some miscommunication between the Italian and Tunisian authorities after he ran away from the hospital; it was somehow misreported that he’d died in the hospital. Officially, as far as the Tunisian authorities know, Yusuf al-Kaysani is dead.”

Sebastien sighed and rubbed at his face, feeling the scratch of stubble under his palm, “How the hell do I tell him that?”

“Maybe group it into the same conversation where you tell two children who loved their parents so much that you’re going to be registering them under different names,” Quynh suggested unhelpfully.

Sebastien stared at Quynh, and then switched his gaze back to Andromache for the answers. “We managed to get hold of their original birth certificates and documentation,” Andromache said, “All you have to do is forge French birth certificates to make them your own, and there should be no issues further down the line.”

“You can’t make them siblings,” Quynh said, so suddenly that even Andromache looked confused.

“What?” Sebastien asked.

“Consider this the one and only time I am going to involve myself fully in these boys’ lives, but trust me. Ask them if they want to be brothers first, because I am willing to bet a whole Anglo-Saxon hoard of coins that ten years down the line those boys will be in love with each other.”

Sebastien blinked and looked at Andromache, who had raised an eyebrow as her only reaction to Quynh’s claim.

“Whether they turn out to be childhood sweethearts or not," Quynh continued "It’s best to give them the choice not to be officially registered as half-brothers or adopted brothers now so to avoid the extra work of sorting that mess out later on if they do end up falling for each other.”

“What would you suggest as an alternative?” Sebastien said, “That I register myself the father of one but not the other?”

There was a long silence in which Sebasten waited, Quynh started to realise what her one supportive argument on behalf of the boys was going to result in, and Andromache looked thoughtful, before Andromache said, “Fine. Sebastien will register himself as the father of one of them, and I will register myself as the mother of the other. They can be brought up as close family friends.”

“No,” Quynh said immediately, “No, I take back everything I just said. Register them both as Basti’s.”

“I think you’re right to suggest giving them that choice,” Sebastien said, “You never know, Quynh, they might decide they want to be registered as brothers after all.”

“Somehow I highly doubt that,” Quynh grumbled, “Curse my ability to read people.”

***

By the time the boys returned Quynh had moved from the sofa to inspecting the little workspace Sebastien had set up in the corner of the living space to home school Joe and Nicolò. “You have quite the set up here Basti,” she said, “I always knew you enjoyed that lecturing job in Paris. You were good at teaching.”

Sebastien hummed, “Eventually I’ll look into maybe registering them at a local school or a college but for now…”

Sebastien was interrupted by a shout from outside; “Booker!”

“Booker?” Andromache repeated, raising her eyebrow at Sebastien.

“When they found out my surname was le Livre they started calling me le Book-re. It’s morphed into some kind of nickname.”

It wasn’t just a nickname, though, Sebastien suspected. Sebastien had been a little unsure what he would do if Joe and Nicolò ever decided to call him a title for ‘father’. He had been Papa and Père to his own children, and the thought of someone else calling him ‘father’ would be a lot to handle. Fortunately it turned out that apparently Joe and Nicolò felt the same way; he knew that Joe had called his father Baba, and Nicolò had called his Babbo, and he doubted they were ready or wanted to call anyone else ‘father’ either. He was pretty sure that their starting to call him ‘Booker’ was their version of giving him a name of endearment that was their own version of ‘Dad’, without actually calling him 'Dad'. And if that actually was the case, it suited Sebastien just fine.

“Booker?” Quynh repeated, “That’s cute, Basti.”

“I can’t tell if that was an insult or a compliment.”

“It was a compliment actually,” Quynh said, a second before Joe and Nicolò appeared in the doorway.

Both boys’ faces lit up, “Andromache! Quynh!” Nicolò exclaimed for the both of them.

“Hi boys,” Quynh said, “You might not be so pleased to see us when you learn what we have come here for.”

***

The boys were, as Quynh suggested they would be, initially apprehensive about the idea of their birth names - the names their parents gave them - being taken away from them. But they eventually warmed to the idea when Sebastien and Andromache explained that they could keep their names, but would just be registered under different names. And that those different registered names were just precaution so that if - for whatever reason - Sebastien had to produce proof of being their guardian, or if they ever wanted to be registered into education, or apply for a passport, then their fake names would raise less flags than using their real ones might.

Sebastien decided not to tell them just yet that Nicolò was registered as a missing child but was already almost forgotten, and that Joe had been officially registered as dead. Not when they were already processing so much new information - and a potential name change - already. He needed time to approach it carefully, because he suspected both of them had abandonment issues, and as someone who knew intimately of a different kind of abandonment; Sebastien knew he needed to plan exactly how and when to reveal that information to them. 

The boys eventually agreed to have their names changed to something else for the sake of documentation and public record, after they had been reassured that they would be able to keep their real names in any other situation. And Andromache had their real birth certificates with her for them to keep.

It also turned out that Quynh had been correct on another count: when asked, the boys preferred the idea of being raised as friends than as brothers.

“That is decided then,” Andromache said matter-of-factly, “We will register Sebastien as Joe’s father and me as Nicolò’s mother. Backstory being that Sebastien and I are close friends that ‘go way back’,” she said it in a false peppy voice; a fake one Sebastien had heard her use on jobs while undercover more than once, “And I have to travel a lot on business for work with my ‘business partner’,” she gestured to Quynh, “So I have listed Sebastien, my close family friend, as a secondary guardian and home tutor for my son. We can make me of English descent since the surname I am currently going by is ‘Mackie’, but that I gave birth to and brought Nicolò up mostly in Italy; to explain his accent.”

Joe and Nicolò were listening raptly. “It’s kind of like having a secret identity, like spies or superheroes,” Sebastien heard Joe whisper to Nicolò. For that at least, Sebastien was glad, because he knew how desperately proud of his name and heritage Joe was in particular. It was Joe that Sebastien had been most concerned about in changing his name in official records. But Joe had finally agreed to take a pretend name just for the odd piece of documentation, in order to better protect his current living situation.

“First names too?” Sebastien asked as he took notes for when he forged the fake French birth certificate for Joe and the fake Italian one for Nicolò.

“Best to change both names a little,” Andromache said, “Even if it’s just an alternative to their original name, like Yusuf already using Joe.”

And so it was that Sebastien finished up his notes with the names Nicolas Mackie, son of Andrea Mackie, and Joseph Le Livre, son of Sebastien le Livre.

Quynh had watched the proceedings from the sidelines, looking unhappy that Andromache had put herself forward to be registered as Nicolò’s mother. Sebastien had been a little surprised too, if he were being honest. Andromache had seemed so determined to put space between the boys and her and Quynh, but they had already helped track down Joe and Nicolò’s records, and Andromache had lead the discussion on how to re-register the boys under different names and parents. He hoped that it was a good sign; a sign that maybe Andromache and Quynh would come to want to be around the boys a little more.

He tuned back in as Nicolò asked Andromache and Quynh how long they were going to be staying.

“Not long,” Andromache answered, “We will have to get going again soon.”

“My birthday is only a week away,” Joe said, “Can you stay for that? Please?”

“We’ll see,” Andromache said.

***

21st December 1979  
Sanguinet, France

Andromache and Quynh did stay for Joe’s 13th birthday.

Joe was upset in the morning - missing his father even more than usual. He held onto Sebastien tightly when Sebastien engulfed him in a hug.

"I miss him, Booker," Joe said into Sebastien's chest, voice choked with tears, "I miss them so much."

Sebastien stroked a calming hand down his back, ignoring the shrewd, knowing look that Andromache sent him. "I know mon fils," Sebastien said, because oh, did he know what it was like to miss loved ones, "I know."

It was good timing when Nicolò appeared with a present in hand. He had asked Sebastien weeks before if they could get Joe a gift, and the happiness that replaced the devastation in Joe's eyes when he unwrapped his new sketchbook and pencils, and the happiness Nicolò showed at the sight of Joe being happier, warmed Sebastien’s worn immortal heart. As the day carried on, Joe began to smile more and more. 

The weather wasn’t great that winter day, but they went for a walk to the beach in the morning, and the rest of the day was spent huddled indoors with plenty of stories and food and board games.

“A teenager already,” Quynh quipped dryly to Sebastien in the kitchen, brushing a fake tear from under her eye, “Don’t they just grow so fast.”

Sebastien did not dare share the thought he had already had several times that day; that Joe only had five years left until he became a legal adult, and that five years already did not seem like a very long time. He did not share it because he knew Quynh would tell him he was already in way too deep. And maybe he was, but Sebastien was not about to admit it.

“You like them really,” Sebastien said instead.

“Your eyes deceive you Basti, and your affection for them blinds you.”

***

“Won’t you stay for Christmas and for the New Year?” Nicolò pouted a little later on, before he and Joe went to bed.

“And Nicolò’s birthday is only two weeks away!” Joe declared.

“I’m going to be eleven!” Nicolò announced. “Can you stay for that? Please!”

Sebastien was honestly quite surprised that Andromache and Quynh eventually agreed to stay on for another two weeks, until Nicolò's birthday. Though, it was not so surprising that one agreed far more reluctantly than the other. Sebastien hoped that one day Andromache and Quynh would decide that they wanted to stay for the long term, but he knew that if that were to happen it was going to take time. Andromache was already softening, he could tell, but Quynh was for good reason going to be a much tougher shell to crack. But if anyone was going to be able to soften her sharp edges, Sebastien reckoned that Joe and Nicolò could.


	5. 1980 - 1981

3rd January 1980  
Sanguinet, France

Joe crept over to Nicolò’s bedside, keeping as quiet as he could, until the moment that he pounced on him. “Nicolò!” Joe yelled, “Happy Birthday!”

Nicolò woke up with a splutter of confusion that quickly turned into laughter as Joe flailed around on top of him. Good. Joe had been upset on his own birthday morning two weeks ago, having woken up and immediately missed his father, who used to wake him up every birthday with breakfast and a song. So Joe wasn’t going to give Nicolò the chance to get sad as well.

“Rise and shine sunshine, it’s not every day you turn eleven, I should know! I’ve been there and done that! I have made breakfast! Come on!”

“Coming, I’m coming,” Nicolò protested tiredly, pushing at Joe to get off him, but when he sat up and rubbed his eyes he did it with a smile. 

“Well come along faster, young Nicolò!”

“I’m not that much younger than you, you know,” Nicolò grumbled.

“I’m a teenager already. You have to wait two more years for that.”

Nicolò stuck his tongue out at Joe before turning away to find some clothes. “Let me find something to wear.”

“No time!” Joe protested, tugging at him, “Your breakfast will be cold if we don’t hurry. We can eat it in our pyjamas! Come on!”

Joe was glad when Nicolò let him have his way and followed when Joe led the way through to the kitchen. Joe got there in time to turn around and see Nicolò’s pleased smile when he walked into the kitchen to find Booker, Andromache and Quynh already up and waiting for him.

“Happy Birthday Nicolò,” Booker said for the three of them, “You hungry?”

When all five of them were seated at the table, breakfast finished, Booker asked Nicolò what he wanted to do today.

“I don’t mind,” Nicolò said, “As long as it’s something all five of us can do together.”

Joe thought it was a good answer. Andromache and Quynh were due to leave tomorrow or the day after, and Nicolò’s wish for his birthday was going to mean they could spend all day with them before they left.

Joe watched Andromache and Quynh glance at each other. “I think we can manage that,” Andromache said.

Joe watched Nicolò smile, and Joe could not help but smile too.

***

13th June 1980  
Sanguinet, France

“You’re quiet,” Andromache said.

Quynh caught Andromache glancing at her from the corner of her eye but Quynh refused to look back, keeping her eyes on the road ahead. She and Andromache were driving back to Sanguinet for the first time since January.

“Am I?” Quynh asked.

“I know something is wrong, Quynh, so why don’t you…”

“You _know_ what’s wrong, Andromache. We are going back too soon.”

Quynh finally glared over at Andromache when her love did not reply. It was apparently Andromache’s turn not to look back; her gaze focused on the drive, hand relaxed on the wheel. Andromache was clearly not at all tense or uncomfortable about going back so soon, and that was dangerous.

That little smile at the corner of Andromache’s mouth - the smile she wore whenever she thought Quynh was being overdramatic for the sake of being overdramatic - that was dangerous too. “Quynh, it’s been five months…”

“Five months,” Quynh scoffed, “Five months is but a blink of our eyes. No!” Quynh held up a finger to halt whatever Andromache was going to say, “You need not say anything else Andromache I know what is going on here, all too well. You are already attached to those children when we vowed we wouldn’t! We _vowed_ …”

“And you can’t say the same?” Andromache interrupted, disbelieving, “You can honestly say that you did not enjoy spending those weeks with them over December and the New Year?”

“It was fine,” Quynh dismissed, “Because I am not letting myself get too close. Unlike you, Andromache; so willing to jump at the chance of being registered as a mother to one of them…”

Andromache sighed, “We have been over this, Quynh. Many times.”

And Quynh knew that. She knew they had been over this more times than she could count. She knew she was starting to sound like a dull, old, boring record playing over and over again, but what else was she to do when nobody was _listening_ to her? When no-one was taking her view into account because she was outnumbered?

Andromache had been totally on Quynh’s side at first, because Andromache felt the pain of the loss of all the children they had raised together just as keenly as Quynh still felt it. But Andromache seemed so much more ready to open her heart to new possibility, while Quynh’s heart was still locked and guarded, as impenetrable as…well, as an iron maiden.

And really, who was she trying to fool, because at the end of every question she had about how she and Andromache had changed over the last few centuries, that was the answer wasn’t it? That had been the answer to so many of Quynh’s instabilities over the last one hundred and fifty years. The iron maiden.

Quynh knew how Andromache had suffered on at the hands of their captors after Quynh had been taken away. She knew how Andromache had finally managed to escape, broken and exhausted. She knew Andromache had searched devotedly but in vain for decades for where Quynh had been dropped overboard. She knew the toll that had taken on Andromache, and how weary she had become. But then had come Basti, sweet Basti, who had been reborn immortal and through his and Quynh’s shared memories and dreams, helped Andromache drastically narrow her search. When Quynh had been found, Andromache’s recovery had not been quick, but it had come. She had spent some time unable to let Quynh out of her sight, but her anxiety had lessened over time. She could be near fire now despite the flashbacks she could sometimes get of the burnings.

Quynh, on the other hand, had never fully recovered. She had spent over two hundred years drowning repeatedly to death. Driven to madness. When Andromache had finally found her, Andromache was a shadow of her old self, but Quynh? Quynh had become someone - some _thing_ \- else entirely. Quynh had to travel by plane to cross oceans; she had not boarded a boat in one hundred and fifty years. Other than baths and showers, Quynh avoided water like she had avoided the Black Plague. She didn’t even like to drink water anymore. She had not stepped foot in a river, pool or ocean since she was pulled out of the sea one hundred and fifty years ago.

She and Andromache’s experiences had impacted them both in different ways, and they had suffered in different ways, and they had learned from them differently. Maybe it was that; their separate trials and subsequent progression (or regression, in Quynh’s case) that made them view this whole Yusuf-and-Nicolò thing differently.

Because of the evidence they had seen so far, Andromache was beginning to hope that by giving Basti this chance, that small possibility that it would help him in the long term really could pay off. And Quynh had no doubt that Andromache also thought that while there were two children under Basti’s care that already knew and accepted the Old Guard’s immortality, that it could be an opportunity to be able to raise children in a circumstance she and Quynh had never before experienced. And that maybe it might prove to be a success. Quynh could tell that Andromache liked the boys. She would never have offered to be listed as Nicolò’s mother otherwise. All of this was because Andromache, after years of hopeless searching after the witch trials, had been gifted Basti and found Quynh, and had been given cause to be at least a little optimistic and hopeful again.

Quynh, on the other hand, had not yet seen much return of her optimism. She constantly saw the worst case in scenarios. That was why she was more able to foresee the much-higher possibility of the children’s eventual deaths destroying Basti all over again. Basti was a huge part of the reason that Quynh wasn’t still drowning at the bottom of the sea, and Quynh would always, always adore him for that. She had accepted him instantly as a new immortal brother, and cared so fiercely for his welfare, as he had saved hers. She did not want to see him shattered anew. Even if these children _did_ give him a brief phase of happiness.

And, of course, the witch trials had also ensured that she had lost all trust and faith in mortals, and that was why she was wary that Nicolò and Yusuf might turn out to be no different from those few children she and Andromache had raised that had discovered their immortality. And even if Yusuf and Nicolò stayed sweet and loyal and kind, and if Quynh allowed herself to become attached to them, and then lost them - an inevitability with their mortality - then maybe it wouldn’t just be Sebastien that would shatter and regress to his lowest point. Quynh was terrified of what she had been when she had first been broken free of her iron prison. She would rather keep her heart locked away, than risk returning to the being she had become while locked away herself.

“Besides,” Andromache said, “As I have reminded you every time you have brought this up; you were the one that suggested the boys not be registered as brothers, not me.”

Quynh reached over to lightly punch Andromache in the arm in retaliation, “I have regretted that every second since I first said it.”

“I think you care more about them than you think you do. You’ve already got a read on those boys, Quynh, an instinct about them. You can’t tell me you don’t because I know you.”

“Even now?” Quynh could not help but ask, “You still know this thing that emerged from the ocean after two centuries in the deep and the dark?”

“I know you,” Andromache said fiercely, reaching over with her free hand to pick up one of Quynh’s and press a firm kiss to the back of her hand. "I still know you."

“I know you too,” Quynh said, trying to swallow back the emotion that threatened to surface. She shook herself, took a breath. “And I also know you missed the turning back there.”

“Shit,” Andromache cursed, and then laughed, and Quynh’s cold heart warmed a little more at the sound of it. “Don’t change the subject, by the way.”

“What subject?”

Andromache hummed knowingly, “We’ll come back to this.”

Quynh turned away from Andromache to look out of the window, “Or we won’t.”

***

14th June 1980  
Sanguinet, France

This. _This_ was why Quynh did not trust the children. The children had been ridiculously excited to see her and Andromache, and had begged for them to spend the day with them. It was only after they had agreed that the children had begged for them to go to the beach.

Quynh had had to force herself just to walk along the beach, far away from the ocean, on Yusuf’s birthday the year before. And now they wanted to go back. And the weather was good, so Nicolò was asking Sebastien if they could go _swimming._

“They don’t know,” Andromache reminded her as Quynh angrily stuffed a towel into a bag, “You don’t have to come if you don’t want to.”

“And stay here? Not knowing what is going to happen to you?!”

“It is just the…”

“Don’t you say ‘just the sea’ to me Andromache!”

“It’s just for a paddle and a swim in the shallows; there will be Sebastien there, and me, and you know how we can swim, Quynh.”

“I am coming,” Quynh said stubbornly, “I can keep watch from the beach. I am not a friend to the sea anymore, but I will be damned before I allow it to take anyone else. I do not know how Yusuf even likes the beach after what happened to him and his family.”

“I don’t imagine he will be swimming either, Quynh.”

“No,” Quynh agreed, setting a wide brim sunhat on her head; one that was so big the brim curved down and masked her eyes, “Not if he has any sense. Once you are an enemy of the ocean it is hard to reconcile. I should know.”

One hundred and fifty years later, and she and the ocean she had once so loved to set sail upon had not yet reconciled. Captain Quynh, she had been known as once. But no longer. She did not know how her past self had even dared risk sailing seas so rough, so deep, so unforgiving. And damn, was the ocean unforgiving. She had learned that the hard way.

***

Quynh based herself at the very edge of the sand; far away from the water. She was sitting on a sun lounger, a book in hand but peering over it, and over the rim of her sunglasses, and from under the brim of her hat, to subtly keep watch.

Basti and Nicolò were already in the shallows, throwing a ball back and forth. Andromache had taken Yusuf to find another sun lounger.

Quynh continued to keep watch until Andromache returned triumphant with her spoils of an extra sun lounger to set up, having bartered with the beach attendant. Quynh’s eyes did not leave Sebastien and Nicolò in the water, so she saw the moment that Nicolò spotted that Yusuf had returned and called to him, waving him to join them in the water.

Yusuf moved immediately to join Nicolò, but Quynh was faster, reaching out to take a hold of his wrist.

“Yusuf! Yusuf no,” she said, “What are you doing?”

Yusuf looked confused, and surprised at the fact Quynh had willingly touched him, which was maybe why he did not try to pull his arm away, “I’m going to go and see Nicolò,” Yusuf said, pointing toward Basti and Nicolò with his free hand, “Do you want to come?”

“No,” she snapped on instinct.

“Quynh,” she heard Andromache’s warning, but Quynh did not look to her love. She looked instead directly at Yusuf.

“Do you not fear it?” Quynh asked him, knowing her tone was sharp but unable and unwilling to change it, “The water? After everything that has happened to you, how you can go near it?”

Yusuf recoiled a little; Quynh felt the tug where she held Yusuf’s wrist, and Yusuf’s eyes did that thing they did when he was sad. They went big and round and shiny. Quynh remained stony in the face of it.

“I…” she saw Yusuf glance to Andromache warily and then his brown eyes focused back on Quynh, “I was terrified of it.”

Quynh’s fingers relaxed a little in their grip. “You _were_?” she pressed.

Yusuf nodded, and there must have been some visual change in Quynh - some tiny gap in her armour that she had managed to accidentally expose - because Yusuf seemed encouraged to continue and not grow too upset or offended by her so bluntly bringing up the deaths of his family.

“I was,” Yusuf said, “I could not go near it. It was not really until I met Nicolò,” Yusuf glanced down the beach to where Nicolò waited in the water, before Yusuf’s full attention returned to Quynh like he knew this was important, “We were homeless and we needed somewhere to wash ourselves. I had been using some of the public showers on the beach front but they only worked in the summer. I was so afraid of going near the sea. I was afraid of drowning again.”

Quynh let go of Yusuf lightning fast for fear of her fingers tightening up so much that she would hurt him. But Yusuf reached out to hold her hand instead. It caught her totally by surprise.

“It was Nicolò that eventually encouraged me near the water,” Yusuf continued, emboldened; he knew he had Quynh’s rapt attention. “He lured me in with games. I still don’t,” Yusuf swallowed, bit his lip, “I still don’t swim. But in Nice I managed to get into the water enough so that I could wash properly, and play a game sometimes with Nicolò. At the beginning I wouldn’t even stand near the edge of the water when it came up the sand. Now I can walk in to my waist.” He pointed to his own waist at the height he could now withstand wading into the water. “Do you…” His voice was quiet, meant for just the two of them, though Quynh knew they had Andromache’s full ear and attention. “Do you have bad memories of water too, Quynh?”

“Really, really bad ones,” Quynh confessed, on a breath, in a rush, spilled through the cracks of the iron maiden that had been forged within her.

“Did you drown?” Yusuf asked.

“More times than I could count,” Quynh said.

Yusuf’s eyes went wide, and huge, and Quynh knew he had no idea of the extent of what that meant, but what she had said gave enough implication. She would say no more. No thirteen year old boy with his own drowning trauma should have to hear any more of that.

“I won’t go into the sea,” Yusuf said, “If you don’t want me to.”

The _‘if you want to keep me safe’_ went unsaid, but Quynh heard it anyway. Because it was true. And damn it all, where were her iron defences now?

“No,” she found herself saying, “You can go.”

“You can come with me if you like?” Yusuf asked tentatively, “We can just put our feet in and paddle?” he tugged gently at where he still held her hand, “We can do it together?”

Quynh stared at him for a good, long time. Quynh knew battle well. She was undefeated in almost every one-on-one combat she had fought in history; but the battle that waged inside her own head was a different matter. It was raging now. Warring reason against fear against stubbornness against defensiveness against self-preservation against anger against…hope?

Her indecision must have taken long enough for Yusuf to believe she was going to refuse. He started to let go of her hand, but Quynh caught it again. “I might walk to the edge with you,” Quynh allowed slowly, “I will not get my feet wet. These sandals are expensive."

Yusuf smiled that bright and almost irritatingly infectious smile at her, “Maybe another time when you are wearing cheaper sandals?”

Quynh actually found herself smirking at that, “I don’t own cheap sandals.”

“Well maybe we should get you a pair sometime,” Andromache chipped in, and she sounded so proud that Quynh was glad she was wearing sunglasses to hide the instinctive emotional reaction she had to that tone in Andromache’s voice; proud and happy and hopeful.

Quynh hummed noncommittally, and stood, still holding Yusuf’s hand.

“Would you like me to come with you?” came Andromache’s voice again.

Quynh finally braved herself to look at Andromache and smile back at her, before quickly glancing back down at Yusuf, “I think we’ve got this,” she told Andromache. _I need to do this alone, with someone who has feared the water like I do,_ she knew Andromache would understand. “Don’t we Yusuf?”

“Sure!” Yusuf insisted, “We’ve got this.”

They did, in fact, have this. Quynh stayed true to her limits and only walked to the edge of the water, stopping before she could get her feet wet, but it was the closest she had gotten to the ocean since she had been saved from it, and she also found herself urging Yusuf into the water to play with Nicolò, watching how Yusuf waded in tentatively at first, but grew in confidence as Nicolò began to explain the rules to whatever game he and Basti had invented. Quynh met Basti’s eyes for long enough to see his own pride for her shining bright in the French sunshine, which had beautifully bleached his blonde hair and tanned his shoulders.

It was going to be a long time until Quynh was once more a swimmer, but it was more of a start than she had allowed herself in a hundred and fifty years. She turned back to join Andromache on the sun loungers. They watched Basti playing with Nicolò and Yusuf but she did not watch to protect so much anymore, but to just observe them having fun. Andromache held her hand the entire time.

“You are a wonder, my love,” Andromache told her.

“One of the wonders of the ancient and modern world,” Quynh agreed teasingly, with a smile, feeling a rare moment of peace. She leaned over to kiss her Scythian. “As you are, Andromache.”

Quynh looked back to the water, to Basti, Yusuf and Nicolò playing and knew that she could not deny that she was in the company of more than just one wonder. Two children, of an age no older to Quynh than some wars she had fought, were already that brave and strong. It was certainly admirable to her. It was just a matter of whether she could let her damaged soul take any more wonder, or dare stay long enough to see if it could handle it permanently, in case it would buckle under its weight when she lost it in the future.

***

15th June 1980  
Sanguinet, France

Booker - for that was what he had been known as primarily for the last five months - returned from his shopping trip to find the house too quiet.

The atmosphere in the house over the last day had been so hugely different, since Quynh had connected with Joe over conquering their fears of water. There had been an element of peace, of acceptance, of calm from Quynh that had not been there with the children around before and the change in the dynamics and interactions in a mere day had been palpable. Booker knew that while this was a positive, it was nowhere near a victory. Quynh had let but a fraction of her guard and apprehensions down. There was still going to be a long way to go before Quynh might actually consider Booker’s decision a good one. But it was progress and Booker was thrilled, no matter how small a step it had been.

Booker had been on a shopping errand and had gone straight into the kitchen to prepare their meal for the evening. He had been a little surprised that neither of the boys had appeared to offer help like usual, especially Nicolò, who liked cooking because he had regularly helped his Grandma in the kitchen. But with Andromache and Quynh back in the house after five months away, Booker assumed he would discover the boys listening intently as Andromache and Quynh told them some more of their favourite child-appropriate stories of their adventures throughout history.

He was surprised then, when he could not find them anywhere in the house. There was not a lot of daylight left, but he decided to check outside anyway. It was there that Booker leaned against the frame of the backdoor, watching with a concoction of hope and amusement, as Quynh moved forward to easily parry the stick in Nicolò’s hand with a stick of her own.

“You are light on your feet, Nicolò,” Quynh praised, “But you must anticipate each and every…” she spun suddenly, and tapped the back of his leg with her stick, “Move of your opponent.”

Joe laughed from where he was perched on a tree stump Booker had fashioned into a chair, and he called something to Nicolò, who smiled sheepishly, and prepared himself for the next battle of sticks.

“She has always been a good teacher for this kind of thing.”

The words startled Booker and he turned his head to find Andromache leaning back against the wall of the house not far from where he was standing. Andromache glanced back at him with a fond smile.

“Well if anything was going to help her connect to the boys quicker it was going to be weaponry and teaching them how to use them,” Booker joked.

Andromache just cocked her head in acknowledgment, “The boys expressed an interest,” she said, “They were asking about the weapons rack back at Goussainville.”

“Do you think if I asked Quynh to bring some archery equipment and training swords back with her the next time you both come to visit, that you might decide to stay a little longer?” Booker asked, because he knew that this visit of Andromache and Quynh’s was planned to be shorter than the one before. They only planned to stay for ten days at the most.

“You know,” Andromache said thoughtfully, as she watched Quynh dance away from the stick Nicolò was jabbing at her, “Before we came here two days ago I would have said you’d have had no chance. But now…” she considered quietly, and actually sounded content when she said, “Now I’m not so sure.”

***

24th July 1980  
Sanguinet, France

It had been a month since Andromache and Quynh’s last visit. Booker had received no word yet of when they might return, but he hoped that not too far in the future they might decide to stay for longer, or more permanently. It was good to be in the company of his immortal sisters, and he knew the boys were intrigued and amazed by them. With Quynh having opened up a little to Joe about her fear of water, and having enjoyed teaching the boys a little about sword fighting, he hoped that it would be enough to make a difference.

But, until then, Booker was enjoying spending the majority of his time with Nicolò and Joe. The boys had been growing, and not just in height, but in their educations; both sharp as pins and quick to learn and engage with new topics, and emotionally they had been improving too. Nicolò’s nightmares had been getting fewer and farther between. Joe’s had become a very rare occurrence. Both of them had grown comfortable in their new home and had stopped being so cautious; no longer treading carefully like their new home and Booker might be taken away or leave them at any moment.

Joe and Nicolò still had their moments of quiet mourning, or days where they weren’t as lively as usual; particularly on dates that had been significant for their families - birthdays, religious holidays, the anniversaries of the fire and the boat accident - but Booker understood, because he had those days too. He had ensured to celebrate the religious holidays, and he knew to give them the space and time and support they needed on their harder days. All of this because although he was not their biological father, he wanted to make sure he did fatherhood right, this time around.

Booker had those harder days too, and today had been one of those days. He wasn’t sure why, as it was not the anniversary of a significant birth or death date for his family, but sometimes grief and mourning and sadness needed no reason to make itself more prominent in the mind. Usually Booker would spend a day like this at the bottom of a bottle, but since taking in the boys as his responsibility Booker had kept his drinking to a leisurely minimum. He had found that without alcohol on these kinds of days, the best thing for him to do was let the boys have a day off from lessons and leave them to their own devices so he could take himself off for a long walk. Just as he understood the boys needing space on their days, they seemed to understand when he needed it too. This morning had been no different.

Booker returned from walking in the Natural Park in the late afternoon, sitting down heavily in the armchair he had claimed as his favourite. He rubbed a hand over his face and sighed.

He did not know how long he had been sitting there before he heard a tentative, “Booker?”

Booker looked up to find Joe and Nicolò lingering at the doorway to the living space. “Hi boys,” Booker sent them a tired smile, “Have you had a good afternoon?”

Joe shrugged, “It was ok.” Booker was surprised that Joe said it in French; they largely spoke to each other in Italian. “Are you ok?” Joe asked.

“I am,” Booker replied in French too, before sitting back and running his hand over his hair. He then amended, “I will be.” His second smile felt a little more genuine.

“Whenever we feel sad you tell us that we can talk to you about anything we need to,” Nicolò said, also in French - both his French and English had seen so much improvement - “Well, we just want you to know that you can tell us anything you need to too.”

Booker held out a hand and the boys immediately rushed over to squash onto the armchair with him; half perched on the arms of the chair and half over his legs.

“Thanks boys,” he said. He hadn’t yet told the boys about his family but maybe, maybe this was the right time - the best opening he could possibly have - to finally tell them. He knew he couldn’t keep it to himself forever. The boys had shared with him many things about their families, and Booker had not done the same in return. “Before I became immortal,” Booker started, “I…well, I had a family. A wife and sons. But they stayed mortal while I didn’t age, and couldn’t die. They died a long time ago now; this year it’s been one hundred and thirty one years since my youngest son died. It’s been a long time. But there are still days where I get sad, and I miss them.”

Nicolò reached out and took his hand. He glanced up at them both, blinking back tears he was too stubborn to let fall. Nicolò’s young face was so serious, and Joe looked on the verge of tears himself.

“I’m sorry you lost them, Booker,” Joe said.

Booker opened his arms and the boys wasted no time in giving him a hug. “Me too,” Booker said into Joe's hair, “Me too.”

They sat there together on that little armchair for a long time, until finally Nicolò pulled back and said “I know you might not be feeling very hungry if you are sad, but we have made dinner.”

Booker sniffed and wiped his face with his sleeve. “You have?”

“Yes,” Joe said, “We made pasta. As a thank you.”

“A thank you?” Booker asked, “For what?”

“It’s been a year today since we met you in Nice,” Nicolò informed him. “We want to thank you for everything you have done for us this year.”

“It’s been a really good year,” Joe insisted, “Thank you for giving us a home again.”

Booker hugged them both back to him tightly, “Thank you for giving me one too,” he said.

Because Booker had learned how to quash that little voice in the back of his mind that sounded like Quynh and liked to remind him that if he still had ‘sad days’ remembering his family one hundred and thirty years later, then losing these two boys within the next ninety years was going to be devastating.

Booker had learned to ignore that voice. Because for once, Booker was ready and happy to live in the moment, and enjoy every minute of it that he could.

***

30th June 1981  
Sanguinet, France

Booker claimed that the last eleven months had flown by too quickly; it was already nearly two years since Joe and Nicky had first met him and started to live with him and the Old Guard. Joe thought that 1981 was going at the same speed as any other year that had come before.

Joe was fourteen now, and Nicky was twelve. Joe had started calling Nicolò 'Nicky' as a joke, combining two parts of Nicky’s fake name - ‘Nicolas Mackie’ - to make one glorious nickname to tease him with, but it actually kind of suited Nicky. It was cute. So the nickname had eventually stuck. Just like the nickname 'Booker' had for Sebastien.

And it wasn’t just Booker and Nicky that had been bestowed new nicknames, no. Andromache had looked totally unbothered the first time Joe had called her ‘Andy’. She said she liked it better than most other false names she had used before and had actually decided to adopt it, leaving ‘Andrea’ behind. And Quynh? Well that was probably the biggest surprise, because Quynh had started referring to herself as ‘Auntie Quynh’ when she and Andy had come to visit two months ago. Because the pronunciation of Quynh sounded so much like ‘Queen’ in English, Joe often outright called Quynh ‘Auntie Queen’ in whatever language they were speaking, and it always made Quynh look incredibly flattered and pleased with herself.

It had been nice getting to know Andy and Quynh a bit better after their first beach day, over a year ago now. Quynh and Andy had been coming to visit more frequently since then, and staying for longer when they did. They had last turned up two months ago. And so far they had not left. Joe was hoping that they would stay. He and Quynh had been talking about maybe trying out swimming in a swimming pool sometime; just to test the waters, so to speak. Joe reckoned he might be able to do it if he had Quynh there for support.

“Nicky!” Joe yelled down at Nicolò, “Are you going to admit defeat yet?”

“No!” Nicky insisted.

So Joe climbed up another branch.

He and Nicky played this game often. They had invented it a few months ago when they had gone exploring in the forest. They had found some trees with low enough branches for them to get into the trees, and from there, their race to the top was born.

“Are you sure?” Joe teased.

“You are too smug, Joe!”

“I think I am just the right amount of smug!”

“Just because you have that stupid growth spurt on your side!”

“It’s not my fault you’re short, Nicky!”

“I am _not_ short!”

“No, not for your age!”

“Shut _up_ Joe!” Nicky shouted back, but Joe knew he didn’t really mean it.

Joe laughed, and Nicky stuck his tongue out at him from his own tree, still a metre and a half down from where Joe dangled his legs from a branch.

“I will beat you next time!” Nicky protested.

“Is that you admitting defeat then?”

“I guess so,” Nicky conceded, “But only if you…” and then suddenly he was gone.

“Nicolò!” Joe shouted, the fear freezing in his chest at the sight of the branch Nicky had just put his foot on snapping and sending Nicky plummeting downwards. “Nicolò!” he screeched, starting to climb back down his own tree as fast as he could. “Nicolò!” The climb down felt like it took a lifetime and by the time his feet hit the ground it felt like his heart was in his mouth. He twisted around and squeaked in terror at the sight of Nicky lying very still on the forest floor, curled on his side. “Nicolò, Nicolò! Destati! Destati!” Joe pleaded through the thickness of his throat and his tears. 'Destati; was an Italian phrase Nicky had taught him in their early days as best friends; Nicky said it wasn’t a word used in common Italian language really anymore but Nicky’s Grandma had always said it to him, and Nicky had picked it up. “Nicolò! Please! Speak to me, please! Destati! Please don’t leave me, please…”

“Joe?”

Nicky’s voice was small, and pained, but Joe almost collapsed with the relief. “Nicolò, Nicky, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Are you hurt? Where are you hurt? I can…” Joe scrambled around to get a better look, and saw that Nicky was curled in on himself and was holding his left arm protectively to himself with his right one. “Nicky?”

“I didn’t hit the ground hard,” Nicky said hazily, though he was wheezing like the air had been knocked out of him, “The branches slowed me down but my arm…” he trailed off, “I think it’s broken.”

“Ok,” Joe said, running a hand over Nicky’s hair, “Ok Nicky, I’ll go and get help ok? I won’t be long, just don’t…don’t move, ok? I’ll be back. I’ll bring Booker, Andy and Auntie Quynh.”

“Ok,” Nicky agreed, voice still so pained that it made Joe wince.

Joe stood up and wiped the tears furiously from his eyes, before taking off back towards the house. It wasn’t far, and he just hoped Nicky would be alright by the time he got back with help. He didn’t know what he would do without Nicky.

***

Nicky had never seen anyone panic so much about a broken arm as the Old Guard. And Joe.

Booker had a huge first aid kit in the house, and a lifetime's supply of plasters after the first time one of them had gotten cut - Joe had cut his finger while playing outside - and Booker had forgotten to store plasters and antiseptic wipes in the house because he was so used to not needing them. After that Booker had taken no chances and had gotten the biggest first aid kit Nicky had ever seen to keep in the bathroom - even the first aid kit at the orphanage hadn’t been that big.

When Joe had returned with Booker, Andy and Auntie Quynh Nicky had been a little hazy with pain, but Joe had filled in bits and pieces for him later on.

The Old Guard had freaked out over Nicky’s arm like he was dying. Nicky had seen them at work in Nice; calm, collected, focused, fierce. But a broken arm had sent them in a state of confusion Nicky had never seen before.

“Where do you hurt?” Booker had asked Nicky, huge first aid kit in hand, “You have to tell me every place so I can check properly…” and Booker kept cursing under his breath.

Quynh kept reminding the other two that they had to take Nicky to a hospital because Nicky was mortal and wouldn’t just heal. Booker snapped that they needed to support his arm properly before they got him up because otherwise they could make it worse.

“Who remembers slings?” Andy demanded, “Sebastien you worked some first aid in World War One and Two right?”

Booker had in fact fashioned some temporary slings in battles before so had quickly made one for Nicky out of a tree branch and his over-shirt.

Joe had held Nicky’s good hand throughout; uncharacteristically quiet. Nicky knew Joe was feeling guilty about what had happened but Nicky had insisted it hadn’t been Joe’s fault.

There had been a lot of drama and commotion getting Nicky to the car; Booker had ended up carrying him with Andy, Quynh and Joe following behind like vocal, anxious ducklings. And then Nicky had been taken to the hospital. Andy had gone into the hospital with him, because she was registered as his mother. Joe had told Nicky afterwards about the anxious wait he, Booker and Quynh had had in the car.

Now, Nicky was sitting on the sofa, sore and bruised and his arm in a cast and sling, with strict instructions not to exert himself because he had a ‘long road to recovery!’ and ‘remember you are not invincible!’ and ‘be careful!’

Now Andy and Booker were cooking, and Joe was hiding in their room still feeling guilty and Nicky wished he wouldn’t, and would come out and keep him company. He would feel miles better with Joe there with him.

Thankfully he was not alone and bored for long. Quynh came and sat down beside him.

Though they sat in companionable quiet for a good few minutes, letting the dramas and fears of the day finally die down, Quynh eventually spoke; “So,” she said, “How long is it going to take you to heal?”

“Six weeks at most,” Nicky said. He glanced at her. “How long would it take you to heal?”

Quynh shrugged, “Sixty seconds at most.”

Nicky huffed, “That would be nice.”

Quynh chuckled, “There are pros and cons to that, believe me.”

They fell back into quiet again.

There had been something that Nicky had wanted to ask Quynh, or Andy, but had never got much of a chance to ask one of them privately, or found the right time to bring it up. Now though, since everyone was feeling sympathetic to him, he decided now was as good a time as any.

“Quynh,” he asked her quietly, “You and Andromache, you are in love, yes?”

Quynh turned to him, looking a little surprised, “You know about us?”

Nicky gave her a ‘ _really_?’ look, “You sleep in the same bedroom. In the same bed.”

Quynh pulled an exaggeratedly thoughtful face, “Fair point. Does Yusuf know too then?”

“Yes. When I first thought you were in love with each other I asked him about it and what he thought about it.”

“And what did he say?”

“He said he had noticed too, but that he didn’t mind. He said his father had always told him that people should be able to love who they want to love.”

Quynh looked surprised. “And do you think that too?”

“I do,” Nicky said.

“It is a nice opinion to hear in this time period. There have been times in history were homosexuality was normal, and free, depicted in art. They were beautiful times. But attitudes have had their ups and downs over the centuries. Mostly downs, in the last few - you should have seen how long it took dear Basti to truly understand it - but it has been nice to see people becoming at least a little more accepting over the last couple of decades.”

“How long have you loved Andy, Quynh?”

“Oh, thousands of years,” Quynh said, and her expression turned more soft and wistful than Nicky had ever seen it, “Thousands.” But then her face changed again, to something Nicky could not really read, until she looked at him and said, “Is there a reason you have asked me this Nicolò?”

“No! No, why…no!”

“The boy doth protest too much, methinks, as my old friend Bill Shakespeare used to say,” Quynh said. “Are you sure about that?”

Nicky didn’t think he had ever been so much under Quynh’s direct attention. It pinned him to the spot, and with the pressure mounting he found himself breaking under it; he blamed whatever it was they had given him at the hospital to help him with the pain.

“There were girls at the orphanage,” Nicky started tentatively, “But…”

“But you didn’t fancy any of the girls,” Quynh concluded for him, “What about the boys?”

Nicky shrugged his good shoulder, “I think…I think so,” he confessed.

Quynh hummed, before leaning over to murmur, “What about Yusuf?”

“I…” Nicky started, knowing that his face had already flushed red and given him away. How did Quynh know?! “Please don’t say anything to him!”

“I won’t,” Quynh said, “I promise. But have you considered that maybe Yusuf might feel the same way?”

Nicky thought about how Joe had stroked his hair and held his hand that day. “I’m scared to tell him,” Nicky said, “In case he doesn’t. He’s my best friend.”

“Then your secret is safe with your Auntie Quynh,” Quynh vowed, and Nicky had a strong feeling that Quynh was the kind of person that would die a hundred times over than give away information she had taken into her confidence, “Besides you are young! You are only twelve! I have been on expeditions that lasted longer than that!” She patted his knee. “And who knows? You might grow out of it.”

Nicolò knew she was trying to cheer him up by saying that, but later that night, as Joe snuck into his bed for a cuddle and to apologise and make Nicky promise never to ever leave him, Nicky didn’t think he was going to ever grow out of fancying Joe.


	6. 1982 - 1984

1st February 1982  
Sanguinet, France

“I’m sorry Booker,” Andy said. She was already using Sebastien’s nickname as commonplace just as he was already using Andy for her - it was familiar practice of the Old Guard to quickly adapt to using new name variations or undercover aliases. “But I can’t see it working any other way. This job needs all of us. I know you said you would take a break from the Old Guard and Quynh and I have been fine handling everything until now. But this job is clearly going to require more than the two of us.”

“And we have to leave tonight,” Quynh added, glancing up from the table spread with intel for a job that the three of them had been pouring over for the last two hours.

The only feasible plan they had been able to come up with for their urgent time frame was a three-man job. Andy and Quynh needed a third for their plan in order for it to work. In order to save lives. There was no question in that Booker was going to go too. The question was: “What exactly are you suggesting I do with the boys?

“Leave them here,” Quynh suggested, “We are going to be gone four days, a week at most.”

“I don’t know if I am comfortable leaving them here. Joe’s barely fifteen. He isn’t even old enough to be left alone without adult supervision for days in a row, let alone Nicky.”

“They lived alone in Nice fending for themselves for nearly two years,” Quynh pointed out.

“And they could have been caught at any time!” Booker argued, “If someone comes round the house and finds out I have left two minors alone for a week, we could lose guardianship of them, or at least rouse suspicion and investigation.”

“The alternative is bringing them with us,” Andy said, “And I imagine you aren’t keen on that idea either?”

“On a job?” Booker shook his head, “No I’m not comfortable with that either.”

“Could you find someone to babysit them in the next few hours?” Andy asked, “Say it’s a family emergency. Or, alternatively, they come on the job with us, and they stay in the safe house while we work.”

Booker growled under his breath at the dilemma, weighing all the pros and cons in his head, “I know they are good at lying low, and if anyone came around the house they could disappear into the forest for an hour or two, but if we leave them here and something goes wrong - if they got themselves injured…” Nicky breaking his arm seven months earlier had been yet another major reminder for Booker how fragile mortal bodies could be. As if every scratch, scrape and bruise they got that didn’t instantly heal wasn’t already reminder enough that they were mortal and would remain mortal, there was the knowledge that they had both already medically ‘died’ years ago and neither had been made immortal from _that_. It had taken Nicky’s broken arm weeks to mend, and it had given Booker enough of a worry that he had unintentionally become more aware and worried over the boys’ mortality than he already had been. “Can I risk it? Leaving them here? But can I risk bringing them with us?” because if there was danger in leaving them unattended at the house, then there was definitely danger in bringing them along on a job.

“Why don’t,” Quynh spoke up, not even bothering to look up from the documents on the table, “You just ask Yusuf and Nicolò what they want to do?”

“Because I already know what they will say,” Booker said, “And I don’t know if I like that option.”

“You don’t like either option Basti,” Quynh said, and she was right, “Just let the boys come with us, because we all know that is what they are going to choose.”

Booker looked back to Andy, needing her advice and opinion, “Andy?”

Andy shrugged a shoulder, “We can make sure the safe house is secure while we work and when the job is finished, it might be nice to show the boys somewhere new. I think they would like London.”

Booker thought so too. He took a moment to marvel at how Andy and Quynh’s attitudes had changed in two and a half years. Quynh was telling him to let the boys decide whether to come with them or not, and Andy was keen to show them a different country.

“I appreciate you both,” he told them sincerely.

“We know,” Quynh waved him away, “Enough with your sappiness, Basti, we love you too.”

Andy nodded in the direction of the living space, where Joe and Nicky were watching television. “Go and ask them. We need to be ready to leave tonight to arrive at the safe house tomorrow morning.”

***

2nd February 1982  
St Albans, United Kingdom

Although the Old Guard did have an apartment in London itself, Andy and Quynh had owned land and then property in St Albans - a town not far outside of London - since the 1400s. As Andy had seen many a village grow to a town to a city, she and Quynh had seen St Albans grow from a rural market town to a popular commuter town for people who worked in the capital.

“We took a shine to St Albans after the First Battle of St Albans during the Wars of the Roses,” Quynh told a fascinated Joe and Nicky, “So after the Second Battle seven years later Andromache and I purchased ourselves a little piece of land. It was not like it is now; it was a small market town for hundreds of years.” Quynh’s love of telling stories, particularly when she knew her audience was as eager to listen as Joe and Nicky, was one of Andy’s favourite things about her. Andy was driving, which left Quynh to turn around in her seat and face her audience; Booker sitting behind her seat so she had a good view of Nicky in the middle seat and Joe beside the driver-side window. “It was our little piece of peace in England,” Quynh continued, and Andy’s chest constricted a little at what was undoubtedly going to come up next in her and Quynh’s British history timeline; “Until, well, we had a bad experience in Essex in the 1600s.” Andy discreetly moved her hand from the gearstick to Quynh’s knee to squeeze it in support. “We have only been back to England a few times since,” Quynh finished, headstrong, “During the Blitz and world-war related necessity.”

“Was St Albans attacked during the war?” Nicky asked, and Andy remembered what Nicky had told them about two of his grandparents dying in the Second World War. One of his grandfathers had fought for Italy, but the grandmother on the other side of the family had been a civilian casualty during the fighting in the country after Italy had been invaded.

“It did get bombed, but nowhere near as much as London itself,” Andy took over from Quynh, looking at him through the rearview mirror, “It was actually considered a safer area than London, so it received some evacuees. We paid the housekeeper at the time to move in and take in as many evacuated children as she could. We did it for a number of our safe houses across Europe, actually; ones we knew we wouldn’t need to use ourselves as bases during the war.”

The Second World War, like all the wars that had come before it and since, had been a bloody mess in so many countries, on so many fronts, with so many losses. But Andy had been glad that in the Second World War in particular, where so many people from so many countries across Europe needed places of refuge, that she, Quynh and Booker had been able to provide it. Despite the bad memories 1600s England held for her and Quynh, they had been back a few times since, and had been too busy with work to linger long on any old traumas. And this time, with Nicky and Joe so excited at the prospect of travelling to Britain for the first time, Andy was actually quite looking forward to seeing what had become of the little house in St Albans.

They had decided to stay in St Albans rather than their apartment in the centre of London so that they could enter the city and then leave as soon as the job was done; no lingering. Leaving London would mean that they would put the job, and any pursuers behind them. It also meant that they could keep Joe and Nicky further from the action while still being within reasonable driving distance to the capital.

It was still the early hours of the morning, since the Old Guard and the boys had flown over during the night, so Joe and Nicky had fallen asleep by the time Andy drove them into St Albans. It took her longer than expected to locate the house; more buildings had gone up around it in the decades they had last been there.

“It looks so different after the last rebuild,” Quynh commented quietly from the passenger seat as Andy pulled the car into the drive. “Whoever is managing it has done a great job with the exterior upkeep though.”

“I think it’s Rosemary’s grandson that’s keeping it now,” Andy said.

“Ugh,” Quynh complained, “What is it they say about time and flying?”

“I don’t know,” Andy deadpanned back, “I think it’s something to do with having fun?”

Quynh moved, fast as a striking python, to place a kiss on Andy’s jaw, “Always fun with you Andromache.” And then unbuckled her seatbelt and ducked out of the car, before her face appeared in the doorway again, “I’ll get the house unlocked, which means you get the lovely job of waking the sleeping beauties in the back.”

Andy turned to look in the backseat to see Booker’s head resting against the window as he dozed. The boys were still asleep too; Nicky leaning against Booker and Joe slumped so far down in his seat that his head was buried in the space between Nicky’s shoulder and neck. Andy wondered if the teens would wake up with aching necks from sleeping at such an angle, it had been so long since Andy had felt mortal aches and pains that she could not really remember.

“Booker,” Andy murmured, and Booker’s eyes instantly opened and focused on her; ever the light sleeper. “We’re here.”

Booker shifted just enough to look at the boys from the corner of his eye without jostling them, and even in the gloom of the early morning she could make out the fond smile that played on Booker’s face. If she hadn’t already known that Booker was smitten with the boys, already way in over his head with not getting too invested in them, then that look would have told her everything she needed to know about how much Booker loved and cared for Nicky and Joe, and how thrilled he was that they trusted and cared about him in return. Booker had promised that he would not consider Joe and Nicky his sons, but Andy knew he had already long broken that promise.

“Boys,” Booker said to the boys softly in French, moving his hand to give Nicky’s arm a gentle shake, “We’re here.”

Nicky woke up fairly quickly but Joe remained drowsy - Joe was regularly the one to sleep longest and heaviest of the two of them - so Andy offered to carry in the bags so that Booker could usher the sleepy teenagers into the house and into proper beds.

***

5th February 1982  
St Albans, United Kingdom

“Doesn’t this feel a little bit like Nice to you?” Joe asked, agitated, tapping his pen repeatedly on the table. “Just waiting for them to come back and not having a clue about how it’s going?” Joe glanced up at Nicky, sitting across from him. Nicky had his arms crossed on the table, his head resting on top of them.

“It feels exactly like Nice,” Nicky replied, his words muffled by his arms, but audible.

“Yeah,” Joe agreed, “Just like Nice.”

“And that time in Nice wasn’t very nice,” Nicky joked in English, his head lifting enough so that Joe could see his eyes squinted in amusement.

“No,” Joe said, lips tilting into a grin, because Nicky had a special brand of dry of humour that Joe found absolutely hilarious, but Nicky had assured him many did not. Joe liked it when Nicky tried to make him laugh. He liked Nicky’s eyes when they were awaiting Joe laughing at a joke he’d made. Joe also liked it when Nicky’s eyes still seemed to light up with delighted surprise when Joe _did_ laugh. “That time in Nice wasn’t very nice. Neither is this.”

“No,” Nicky agreed. He pushed back unexpectedly from the table. “But we didn’t have a television in Nice. We can go and distract ourselves rather than sit here waiting.”

Joe regarded all the papers that lay on the table between him and Nicky. It was the Old Guard’s research for the job, and Joe had enjoyed that as wards of the Old Guard he and Nicky were now trusted to be around when the Old Guard were planning missions. He and Nicky had even been trusted to read a few documents to find needed information, because five pairs of eyes were quicker than three. Joe had enjoyed being trusted, and involved, not just because the work felt like he was in a film, plotting a heist, but because he knew that by helping plan the mission, he was helping the Old Guard save other people. 

But now the planning part was over, and he and Nicky were too mortal to be included in the action. So they had two options; sit here with the research hoping there hadn’t been a detail they had missed, or distract themselves until Booker, Andy and Quynh returned. Joe remembered back to Nice and how Nicky had distracted them both then too by suggesting food. Nicky always had ways to make Joe feel less fidgety and anxious.

“You are right, Nicky, as always,” Joe sighed, standing up too, “Let’s go and watch some TV.”

“Good,” Nicky said, “Because I think Top of the Pops will be on.”

“Oh I see,” Joe said, holding his hand dramatically to his chest, “This isn’t a plan to make me feel better at all! This is because you want your music fix!”

Nicky shrugged a shoulder, smirk mischievous. It was a smile that Joe always delighted in seeing. “It might be both,” Nicky admitted.

They squashed together on the old, small sofa in the living room. They watched Top of the Pops until it reached the time that the Old Guard had expected to be back in St Albans by. And after that time passed with no appearance, and Nicky reached over to grab Joe’s fidgeting hand, they half-watched Top of the Pops while holding each other’s hands in silent support.

When they finally heard the front door open an hour later with Quynh loudly complaining about London traffic, Joe felt like he was finally able to breathe properly again. But he kind of missed having Nicky’s hand in his when Nicky finally let him go so that they could go and greet their guardians.

***

8th July 1982  
Sanguinet, France

The Old Guard had a varied existence of war and relative peace; there were times they found themselves in a war zone, or on a mission, or on the run, all high action and drama and death counts; and then there were the times in between where they were able to travel, see the world, rest, learn, and live for brief moments like ordinary mortals. And as such - similarly to Andy and Quynh’s complicated relationship with their UK safe houses following the witch trial - they had varied feelings about their other safe houses too depending on whether those houses had been involved in periods of war or peace.

Some of their safe houses had become associated with less pleasant memories from one mission or another; one where one or all of them had had a particularly nasty death, or one they stayed at a lot during a particular war, or one where they based themselves on a high-risk mission that still haunted them, or one where they had had to barricade themselves in. In contrast they also had safe houses that had not been tarnished by less pleasant memories and were used more like retreats; peaceful, quiet, somewhere safe to go and stay during their spells between missions.

Their little house in Sanguinet was undoubtedly one of the latter houses, filled so far with only good memories; a little corner of tranquility in their immortal world. And normally it _was_ peaceful and quiet too, but then had come the 1982 FIFA World Cup and the past month had seen the house rowdier and louder and more raucous than ever before, as they had all shouted and hollered at the TV.

“Now, now Basti,” Quynh chirped smugly as Sebastien sulked in his armchair. France had just been defeated by West Germany by penalty shootout in their semi-final match; the first time in World Cup finals history as far as Sebastien could remember that a shootout had determined the outcome of the game. “Don’t be a sore loser!”

“I’m not!” Booker complained, watching in semi-mocking disapproval as Nicky celebrated - as smugly as someone as earnest as Nicky _could_ be smug - that France would not be competing against Italy in the final. Italy had beaten Poland 2-0 earlier that day. “I’m just wondering whether the invention of television was worth the cost of watching that defeat.”

“At least your country actually qualified, Booker,” Joe commented from where he was jumping around with Nicky, hyped up by the two games of the day.

Joe had been so hopeful that Tunisia would qualify after they had managed to for the previous World Cup, but they hadn’t for this one. So Joe had instead split his support equally between France and Italy for the next stages. Which, to be fair, Booker had been doing too, with just that little bit of extra patriotic hope that France would make it to the final. Booker had been following the French football team since the first time there had ever been an international competition; he reckoned he had a right to be disappointed as the team's longest living fan.

“It may have been a defeat, Booker,” Andy said, where she was still sitting on the sofa with a beer in hand, watching the celebrations with calm amusement, “But that was by far the most exciting football match I have ever seen. And we’ve seen a few in our time.”

“That’s true,” Booker grumbled, “At least it might go down in history for that.”

“And at least,” Nicky panted as he stopped jumping around with Joe to look at Booker, “Italy and France will not be playing each other in the final. At least now we can all support the same team?”

“Yes,” Booker agreed, trying not to look Quynh in the eye as he gave in almost immediately to Nicky’s sincerity, “Yes we can.”

“Actually,” Quynh said conspiratorially, “I might support West Germany.”

Nicky’s face morphed into one of betrayal as he spun around to face her “Auntie Quynh!” Nicky scolded with such outrage that Booker started to grin, France’s defeat _almost_ forgotten, as Quynh cracked a sly smile.

“Ok, ok,” Quynh held up her hands, “I would not want to get on the wrong side of my fierce little Italian.”

***

11th July 1982  
Sanguinet, France

Nicky and Joe probably should have been a bit more considerate to the fact that Booker probably didn’t want a fifteen year old and a thirteen year old leaping on top of him in celebration, but Nicky could not bring himself to care, because the final of the World Cup had ended with a 3-1 victory for Italy!

Nicky felt giddy and loud in a way he very rarely felt and acted, as he grabbed onto Booker and told him “We won, Booker!”

Booker must have been able to hear him over Joe loudly singing the Italian anthem, and apparently didn’t care about the boys jumping on him either, as he jumped up to celebrate with them, joining Joe in singing.

Nicky felt an arm curl around his shoulders and turned to find Quynh grinning at him. “Congratulations my little Italian.”

“I thought you were supporting West Germany?” Nicky teased.

“And betray you, Nicolò?” Quynh exaggerated her appalled expression, “Never! Besides, I never support the losing side when it comes to sport,” she winked, “I like champions. Why do you think I like Andromache so much?” 

“Andromache is not the champion today!” Joe sing-songed as he suddenly appeared in front of Nicky with a smile so big and pretty that Nicky’s smile back felt shy in comparison, “Nicolò and his nazionale di calico dell’Italia are the champions!” Joe started singing the Italian anthem again and pulled Nicky into some kind of celebratory waltz that was weirdly smooth-footed for something that seemed to change direction and speed at random.

Nicky felt himself heat a little in the face as he caught Quynh watching them knowingly from over Joe’s shoulder, remembering the talk he and Quynh had had a year ago about his crush on Joe. Quynh had kept to her promise and not breathed a word to anyone. When Nicky had first made her make that promise, he had hoped that his crush on Joe might have gone away by now. But it hadn’t gone away at all. If anything it had gotten stronger.

At fifteen, Joe was growing up tall and handsome, and after nearly three years in the care of Booker, Andy and Quynh, his confidence had thrived and it shone from him. Joe was easy going, someone that was always wanted around for their jovial, pleasant presence. He was intelligent, and brave, and funny. His smile was beautiful. He made Nicky feel kind of short and gawky in comparison sometimes, even though Nicky was as skilled as him at sport, and in school subjects.

As Joe danced them around the room, using his hold on Nicky's hands to pull him along, Nicky was afraid he was never going to get over his un-reciprocated feelings. Or at least, he believed they were un-reciprocated, because he was not about to just talk to Joe about it and potentially risk losing his best friend over a childhood crush. 

***

19th May 1983  
Sanguinet, France

Joe could never hear Auntie Quynh coming. It wasn’t until he heard her say “What is that?” in an utterly deadpan tone and scared Joe half to death that he looked up and saw her standing across the room.

“What’s what?” Joe asked, despite knowing _exactly_ what Quynh was talking about.

“That thing on your head.”

Joe ducked his head, looking back at his sketchbook, “It's a baseball cap, Auntie Quynh,” he said.

“You are wearing it backwards.”

“It is 1983, Auntie. I’m sixteen! This is _fashion_.”

“Is it?” Quynh looked doubtful.

“Plus it keeps the hair out of my eyes when I'm drawing,” Joe pointed at how the cap was keeping his hair mostly under control - there were still little tufts poking out through the front, he knew, but it was like fighting a losing battle. He glanced back at up at her unimpressed look. “I take it you don’t like it then?”

“It is hiding all of your beautiful hair,” Quynh complained.

“Well thank you for the compliment, but I’m sticking by my fashion choices for now. Speaking of which, do you want to continue with the 1100s?”

“Yes,” Quynh said immediately, and thankfully dropped the topic of the hat as she moved with a hunter’s speed to sit down in her favourite spot.

Joe smiled, pleased, and eagerly pushed aside his current sketchbook to rifle through his pile of other sketchbooks. He had three that he was filling with portraits of the Old Guard through time; drawing their clothing choices as they remembered them, filling in bits and pieces with television documentaries and history book images. Booker’s era images were all done, but Andy and Quynh had centuries' worth more of portraits to talk him through. While Andy mostly patiently humoured him, Quynh practically preened every time she sat with him to talk him through fashions of that period with plenty of anecdotes and stories that were getting increasingly more mature as his age appropriateness went up. Joe adored Quynh’s stories. The only thing she never talked about was the period she spent repeatedly drowning. That was all he or Nicky really knew about it. He still didn’t know how long she drowned for, or how, or why. He dreaded getting to the era where that had happened to her, and how she would react, or finding out how long it had been by the amount of time she would tell him to skip on for until the next drawing.

The last couple of summers Joe and Quynh had been going to the local swimming pool and together, hand in hand, they had braved the shallow end, and slowly, slowly got themselves swimming a little again. Andy and Booker and Nicky would join them too, and while it felt nice and safe having them near, Joe still somehow felt most protected when he went into the water with Quynh. When he had told that to Quynh, she had just shrugged and declared that of the five of them only she and Joe had gone to battle against the ocean and had come out victorious, so they needed no support but each other and their own bravery. Water had taken so much from Joe, and had given him terrible, agonising memories for life in return, so never in a million years could he have imagined that he would ever find himself the least bit thankful to it, but he was. Because despite their shared traumas, water had also been the reason he and Quynh had first forged a connection, and it continued to be something they bonded over. 

Joe's portraits had become another thing they bonded over. As Joe found his sketchbook of Quynh and flipped through it to get to the right portrait to continue, he half-noticed Quynh picking up another of his sketchbooks and starting to flip through it leisurely from the corner of his eye. He didn’t think anything of it at first - he liked to share his art with his second family - and it wasn't until he found the right page and looked at Quynh properly that he even realised which book she had picked up.

She had paused on a drawing he had done of Nicky six months ago, but she had been flipping through it, so had probably seen just how many drawings he had done of Nicky over the years. He was fond of that sketchbook, because it not only documented how Nicky had grown up, but how Joe’s art had improved as well.

“When you only have five subjects to draw,” Joe joked, gesturing to his books of Nicky and Quynh, and across to the ones that were full of Andy, and Booker, and self-portraits of himself, “You end up using the same five faces as practice points.”

“I see,” Quynh said, and he couldn’t understand why she sounded like she didn’t believe him. She turned the sketchbook around so he could properly see the one she was looking at, “Just practice points?”

It was a portrait Joe was particularly proud of because of how it had captured Nicky’s smile, and the light in his eyes. Joe frowned at her, confused, “Yes? Don’t you like it?”

“I love it Yusuf,” Quynh dismissed his concerns, “You have captured Nicolò beautifully.”

Joe shrugged, “Well, he is a beautiful subject.”

“Yes,” Quynh agreed slowly. There was a pause, and then she asked “Do you by any chance have a crush, young Yusuf?”

“What?” Joe spluttered, completely caught by surprise at the question, “What? On Nicolò? No?”

Quynh looked genuinely surprised by his bewildered response. “Oh,” she said, “My mistake, darling, I’m sorry. I was just curious, since you seem to have studied him to perfection in these drawings of him.”

Quynh dropped the topic like she had never brought it up but Joe couldn’t let it go. Even while he was busy continuing his portrait of her in the 1100s, with Quynh inputting suggestions for clothing details, his mind was left reeling by her question.

Nicky had been special to Joe for as long as Joe had known him. And Joe loved him, fiercely. He had already known that his and Nicky’s friendship was a little unconventional for how strong a co-dependency they had, but he had assumed that that was because of how they had lived for several years with just each other for company, helping and protecting and caring for each other. Now he found himself questioning if that was all it was. He thought back to how happy he felt whenever he was with Nicky, and how he always sought out Nicky’s company, and tried to make him smile, and how often he had drawn him, and began to wonder if his feelings for Nicky were actually a lot more complex than just co-dependent best friend.

“I feel as though I have thrown you into a quandary, Yusuf,” Quynh said, breaking the quiet that must have gone on for too long, “I apologise. That wasn’t my intention.”

“I don’t want you to think I’m protesting to the idea of liking someone of the same gender,” Joe found himself blurting out, “I was always taught that people should be able to love who they love. So that is what I have always believed. People should be able to love whoever they love, like you and Andy. And…and like me. I don’t know if you’d picked up on that but…”

It was a silly thing for him to say really, because it didn’t take a genius to work out that Joe wasn’t heterosexual. And Quynh was undoubtedly a genius.

Quynh just cocked her head and smiled teasingly at him, “I thought as much, but I did begin to wonder if that hat was an attempt at a statement otherwise.”

“Hey!” Joe grinned despite himself.

“But that panicked look on your face is about more than that I feel,” Quynh said, “What I asked you about Nicolò, Yusuf. You seem to be lost in thought and confusion.”

Joe sighed, putting down his pencils, and scanning the room to make sure that he and Quynh were still alone. “I just never thought that my feelings for Nicky were more than friendship,” he said, still unsure if that was really truly what it had been. “But now you have made me think that maybe there was more to it, when we were younger…that maybe it might have been a schoolboy crush as well and I just didn’t notice because Nicky had all of my time and I had all of his, anyway. I never saw it for anything more than what it was, but now…”

“Now?” Quynh encouraged.

“Well I can’t give it too much thought _now_ can I?” Joe said, simply, even as his mind flew about wildly, “Sure, I might have had oblivious childhood crush, but now? I’m sixteen now! Booker has already had to teach me how to shave my face! Nicky’s only fourteen, and he's only just started getting taller. Booker reckons I’m almost done growing now! By the time Nicky’s the age I am now, I’ll be having to think about starting university or working a full time job! I just…” Joe pinched the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes, trying to block out this revelation that he had just been bombarded with. “I won’t,” he said, “I don’t...” he looked up at Quynh desperately, “I _can’t_!”

“Alright,” Quynh told him softly, reaching out to adjust his baseball cap fondly, pulling more of his curls out of the gap at the front, “Alright, Yusuf. I understand.”

Quynh said nothing more about it, and neither did Joe, but the revelation that his feelings for Nicky had always been something a little more than friendship stayed with him. He thought about how inseparable they were, how much he enjoyed Nicky’s company, how making Nicky smile could brighten Joe’s whole day, how he tried so hard to make Nicky laugh or feel happy, how he would instinctively reach out to hold Nicky’s hand…

Shit. How had Joe been so naïve not to notice? How had he been so _blind_? He had been so oblivious to something that was probably quite obvious to anybody on the outside, but then Joe had always acted that way, intentionally or not, so maybe this crush he had unknowingly had for years hadn’t actually been noticed - by the Old Guard _or_ Nicky himself - because Joe had always acted that way. And now that Joe was aware of it, and was too old to have such childhood crushes for someone younger than him, he had to somehow ensure that he let those extra feelings go, while not risking his and Nicky’s friendship.

***

9th April 1984  
Sanguinet, France

As a child, family killed and home destroyed by fire, orphaned officially after the death of his Grandmother and then a homeless runaway, Nicky had not had many hopes and dreams for his future. So he could sometimes hardly believe the opportunities and education that the Old Guard had given him and Joe in only five years.

Booker had been focusing on the formal education side of things; teaching them the necessary school subjects for their examinations and official grades. Though their little Old Guard family mostly spoke in Italian and French when at home, Nicky’s English and German had improved tenfold, and thanks to Joe’s Arabic and the many other languages spoken by the Old Guard, Nicky knew bits and pieces of other languages too. He and Joe had learned arts too, but more recreationally. They had attended a few dance classes in Bordeaux. Joe was already a talented artist and drew a lot in his spare time. They both liked reading and writing poetry. Nicky liked singing too; not that he would ever admit that to anybody.

While Booker was the one that had encouraged Nicky and Joe to play football with a local youth team, and often accompanied Nicky for swims in the sea and local pool, it was Quynh and Andy that had taken the lead with most other sporting activities. Nicky and Joe had been taught horseback riding, archery, hand-to-hand combats, fencing and other forms of swordplay.

Both he and Joe enjoyed the weaponry and combat sports. Joe was particularly talented at hand-to-hand combat and sword work in particular, but if it was between his artwork and archery, Joe still tended to favour his art. Nicky, on the other hand, _adored_ target sports and it was no secret. Andy had gifted him hatchets on his birthday two years ago, and when Nicky requested learning rifle shooting for his fifteenth birthday three months ago, and Booker had okayed it, Andy and Quynh had taught Nicky and Joe a little about firearms too. Joe learnt it and practiced it, but had not made a hobby out of it like Nicky had.

It was in target sports that Nicky had found strong common ground with Andy, particularly in the last three months with his rifle shooting. Andy's thrill at teaching, and Nicky’s natural talent for accurate distance shooting meant that they had been spending a lot of time together outside of his normal schooling.

“You have quite extraordinary aim, Nicolò, and after only a few months,” Andy had praised him in their last shooting session, when Nicky hit the bulls-eye of his target from the furthest distance he had tried so far. “I have known professional snipers who would already be struggling to compete with you.”

Nicky had practically glowed with pride, because Andy did not give out compliments unless they were meant.

A week ago Quynh had commented that at the rate Nicky was improving with his aim, and with his and Joe’s talents for archery and fencing, that they could well train up to Olympic standard. Not that they would ever be able to compete in such things, of course, with the risk that putting their faces and names on an international platform might have somebody recognising them as that-child-that-disappeared. Besides, the Olympics weren’t really in Nicky’s interest, and they definitely weren’t in Joe’s.

Joe was planning to go to university to study art. Nicky hated the idea of Joe leaving to live and study somewhere that Nicky couldn’t go too. Joe had promised that he would not attend a university too far away, but Nicky knew that would all depend on where the courses were and where Joe's applications were successful. Nicky was beginning to feel increasingly unsettled, knowing that the life he had built with Joe, Booker, Andy and Quynh in Sanguinet in the last five years would soon be changing, and that Joe wouldn’t be there anymore.

Joe had promised Nicky that he wouldn’t travel far, but there was still a chance that he could change his mind. Joe had changed a bit since turning sixteen. He had grown up a lot and had what Booker informed Nicky was an ‘actually quite tame’ teenager attitude (though, Nicky had also been informed, he had been developing some of that attitude himself). Nicky didn’t feel like he and Joe were growing apart, which he was thankful for, but they _were_ spending more time apart. Nicky had been spending increasing amounts of time shooting, and Joe had been focusing on his examinations and spending increasing amounts of time with his art, building his portfolio for his university applications.

Now at fifteen and seventeen, they weren’t children anymore, they were teenagers, and had been living in a safe environment for four years, so it was inevitable that they had become less prone to being attached to each other like glue as time had gone on. Joe had become less tactile with Nicky since turning sixteen too; less likely to grab his hand, or sit squashed right up against him when they watched TV. It was almost like Joe had become more conscious of the age gap between them; especially when Joe had finished his growth spurt and Nicky was still going with his, and while Joe now had to shave to keep his face smooth, Nicky was still yet to have his first shaving lesson from Booker. 

Joe was still Joe in most other ways than that, though. He still gave the best hugs in the world. He was still quick to laugh and joke and he still found Nicky’s sense of humour hilarious. He still tried to make Nicky laugh, and would share his artwork with him and would always look flattered when Nicky assured him that it was amazing. He would still challenge Nicky to a game of football. So maybe the changes Nicky had seen in Joe, and himself as well, were just a natural part of getting older, and Nicky supposed he had to be ready for that to keep happening; for them to get older and older and for things to keep changing for him and Joe, even while Booker, Andy and Quynh remained the same.

“Five-two! You’re not focusing Nico!” Joe protested playfully, tapping the back of Nicky’s calf with his training sword, “Where’s your head at?!”

Nicky spun away from another ‘strike’ and calmed his whirring mind by focusing back on Joe and the training session they had taken it upon themselves to have - Booker was busy in town and Andy and Quynh were at the beach - “My head is currently thinking what _is_ Joe _wearing_?” Nicky teased in return.

Joe huffed good naturedly, “If you offend my lovely patterned shirt one more time…”

“Is that a shirt? It doesn’t seem to have many buttons.” It was a distracting shirt is what it was; bold patterns and only partially done up, exposing too much of Joe’s skin to be fair to Nicky, who was just as secretly smitten with his best friend as ever. Joe was growing up beautifully and utterly beautiful. At seventeen, in his shorts and colourful open shirt, exposing plenty of that flawless skin, he was a picture of 1980s fashion. With the light shadow of stubble on his jaw, and the tufts of curls poking out from under his baseball cap, Joe had the look of a model about him. He was still taller than Nicky too, though Nicky was slowly catching up. 

“This is the 1980s! This is fashion!” Joe insisted with a smug grin, catching Nicky with a surprise tap to the shoulder with his training sword. “Six-two to me.”

“It is blinding,” Nicky countered, feeling somehow underdressed in his own plain shorts and t-shirt.

“Is that what's stopping you from countering my strikes, Nicky?” Joe taunted good-naturedly, “Is my shirt so blinding you cannot see to block and counter? Or is it just that I am better with a sword than you are?”

“Which kind of sword are you talking about?” Nicky shot back, full of unexpected innuendo, not wanting to be outdone. It worked. Joe stopped, stunned enough that Nicky moved in and tapped Joe in the chest with his training sword. “Six-three.” Nicky grinned.

Joe’s eyes widened, but then he blinked and grinned back, his eyes glittering with mirth and no mercy and Nicky suddenly realised he had entered them into previously avoided territory; “I’m talking about both kinds,” Joe smirked back at him, “Both kinds of sword.”

Nicky staggered and Joe whirled to catch him with the sword again, “Seven-three.”

“Wait,” Nicky spluttered in utter surprise, “Are you gay?”

“Well I’m not heterosexual,” Joe shrugged. But then it was Joe’s turn to pause and narrow his eyes in surprise at Nicky, “Wait…are _you_ gay?”

Nicky scoffed, because how had Joe not known? How had he not noticed that Nicky had been in love with him for years?

“Of course I am,” Nicky said, like it should have been obvious. But no. Wait! He didn’t want Joe to know…Joe couldn’t know that Nicky loved him! It could ruin everything! _Everything_! But it was too late to backtrack now. Joe was frozen in place, staring at him, like he was learning and understanding Nicky all over again. Nicky, feeling awkwardly on the spot and for lack of anything else to do, moved forward enough to tap Joe’s hip with his training sword. “Seven-four,” he said lamely.

Joe blinked again, but then seemed to shake himself out of it as his face split into a wide grin, “Well, just when I thought I knew all there was to know about you, Nicolò!”

Nicky wished he could have come up with some quick-witted response, but he was busy experiencing the aftershock of finding out that _Joe_ wasn’t heterosexual either; the panic of revealing his own homosexuality had delayed his own surprise at the same revelation from Joe. “I didn’t know that about you either, Joe,” he finally found the words to say, “But I don’t think it is true that you know everything there is to know about me.”

“Hmm,” Joe hummed with confident doubt, “I think I do.”

Nicky had expected that response, so was quick to move forwards and trip an unsuspecting Joe with his training sword. Nicky sauntered forwards to look down at Joe splayed on his back on the grass and said “Are you sure about that? Wouldn’t you have predicted that move if you knew everything there was to know about me?”

“I would say ‘fair play' but that really wasn’t fair play,” Joe countered, holding out his hand, and Nicky obliged in pulling Joe to his feet.

“Seven-five,” Nicky said, looking up into Joe's face.

“How could you use our unexpected heart-to-heart as a way to gain an advantage over me, Nicky!?” Joe bemoaned theatrically; he was joking though. His brown eyes were warm as he looked back down at him.

“Sorry,” Nicky said, but didn’t really mean it because Joe had been taking advantage of Nicky’s distraction earlier too. “I’m glad you told me though,” Nicky admitted, “And I am glad that I have been able to tell you too. It is nice to know that I’m not in this alone.”

“Never alone Nicky,” Joe promised, “We’re in this together, always.”

And while Nicky was glad to hear it, he knew Joe did not mean the ‘together’ that Nicky wished he did. He also knew that it wasn't a promise that Joe would necessarily be able to keep, as much as he may mean it now.

“I don’t want you to go to university next year,” the confession spilled out of him.

“I know,” Joe sighed, smile turning down at the corners as he looked away to brush the soil and grass off his patterned shirt, “But Booker is pretty keen on me going.”

“What do you mean?”

“He asked me a few months ago what I was planning to do when I was eighteen - go into higher education, or look for a job, and I said I liked doing research on that mission in St Albans and asked if I could just be a part of the Old Guard.”

Nicky was genuinely surprised by that, not only because Joe had asked such a thing, but because Nicky had been considering it too. “What did Booker say to that?” Nicky asked.

“I think he panicked about the, you know…” Joe shrugged, “The mortal issue again. So in the end we cut a deal. I’m going to get a degree, and then make up my mind. I think he hopes that I’ll enjoy university so much that by the end of it I'll decide that I want to work a 'civilian' job and live a ‘safe’ life and won’t want to join the Old Guard after all.”

“What are the chances of that actually happening?” Nicky asked doubtfully.

“Slim,” Joe grinned sheepishly, “I know I'll enjoy studying the art course I eventually end up doing, but I’ve really liked helping out the Old Guard when we have. I like doing the research and knowing that we’re helping people. I like being part of the team as well as part of their family.”

Nicky sighed, because he felt the same, “Me too.”

“But to get to that point,” Joe said, “I think Booker needs to know that we have tried the other option - the ‘civilian’ option - first.” Joe was saying ‘we’, and that more than anything made Nicky feel a little better about Joe leaving for university, because from the way Joe was talking, it was clear that he had not at any point considered leaving Nicky behind. “I take it you want the same thing as me?” Joe asked, “You want to join the Old Guard too, don’t you?”

“Yes," Nicky said, "I do.”

“See?!” Joe nudged him, “I told you I know everything there is to know about you!”

“No you don’t,” Nicky said.

“Yes, yes I do,” Joe teased back, his expression playful.

“No," Nicky said adamantly, getting frustrated, because Joe didn't. He didn't know. "You don’t.”

“Yes…”

“No,” Nicky interrupted firmly. He stood up on his tiptoes to kiss the corner of Joe’s lips. He lowered himself back down onto his heels to find Joe staring at him. Nicky didn’t give himself time to interpret Joe's expression, because his heart was hammering too fast to concentrate on anything but running away. “Now you do,” Nicky told him, before turning around and fleeing back to the house.


	7. 1984 - 1986

“Nicky!” Joe chased Nicky back into the house. His heart was hammering and he could still feel the light press of Nicky’s lips at the corner of his mouth. “Nicky wait!” he called out before Nicky could disappear into their bedroom. “Nicky, please!” he called again before Nicky could shut the door.

The door paused in closing, as though Nicky were unable to deny Joe when Joe said ‘please’. Joe watched with relief as Nicky moved to look at him, half of his face and one of his seaglass-coloured eyes obscured by the doorframe. Joe knew he had to act before Nicky disappeared again so hurried down the hallway towards him.

“I’m sorry Joe,” Nicky said, words coming in a rush as Joe approached, “Just, forget that happened ok?” As Joe reached the doorway Nicky moved back into the bedroom to let Joe in but stopped abruptly to stand his ground, resolve visibly descending. “Just forget it happened,” Nicky demanded.

Joe reached out to take Nicky’s hand, “I can’t,” Joe said, still so conflicted over obliviously feeling this way about Nicky for years but only realising it when the age difference was at its most problematic.

“Yes you can,” Nicky said, “Forget about it and we can pretend it never happened and carry on being best friends with…”

“No,” Joe interrupted, and as Nicky’s face crumpled with blatant devastation, Joe panicked, “No, no Nicky that’s not what I meant!” he insisted, still holding Nicky’s hand as he grabbed Nicky’s other arm to stop him from pulling away again. “I mean I can’t forget it happened because I…I don’t want to forget it.”

Nicky must have heard something in Joe’s voice, because if anyone could read Joe it was Nicky, and Nicky’s eyes widened a fraction, “Joe?” he asked, voice small but hopeful, “What are you saying?” For lack of anything else to do, Joe lifted Nicky’s hand and pressed a swift kiss to the back of it, feeling his face heat, and not able to look Nicky in the eye. “Joe,” Nicky said on an amazed breath, but Joe kept his eyes on their hands, mind racing. Nicky’s next words were more forceful, “Joe. Look at me? Please.”

Joe looked up, helpless, into Nicky’s eyes and saw how wondering Nicky was and couldn’t help but ask “You really like me, like that?”

“Yes. I thought maybe you had figured it out,” Nicky said, watching him, “And that was why you were pulling away from me.”

“No of course not!” Joe squeezed Nicky’s hand, searching for the right words to explain, “The reason I’ve been pulling away, it was because of me. I’ve liked you for a long time, since we were children, but because it’s always been you and me for so long, I didn’t realise what my feelings were until recently. And even if I had known you liked me too back then, I realised it too late, when I couldn’t do anything about it. It felt wrong to feel that way about you.”

Nicky’s face fell, “What do you mean you couldn’t do anything? Why did it feel wrong?”

“It was last year when I realised. I was sixteen,” Joe said, “You were still fourteen, Nicky. I couldn’t…it wouldn’t have been right.”

He was relieved when Nicky nodded in understanding. Nicky still looked stunned to have learned that Joe had feelings for him, just as Joe was still stunned that Nicky apparently had feelings for him back. Nicky moved his hand to properly lace his fingers with Joe’s and Joe closed his eyes, knowing and feeling how right it was to have Nicky’s hand in his.

“We’re both aged fifteen or over now,” Nicky pointed out slowly, hopefully. Nicky was right; two years ago the legal age of consent for homosexuals in France had been lowered and equalised to the heterosexual age of consent of fifteen. If they became a couple now, it would be legal.

“We are,” Joe agreed, opening his eyes to see Nicky’s face once more, “I’m still processing that this is actually happening. That this is something we can have now.”

Joe and Nicky searched each other’s expressions. Joe had always thought he could read Nicky like a book, but it felt now like he could read him even better still; finally able to see the small print that had been hidden away between the lines. And he was sure that Nicky was feeling the same way about him.

Joe was still overwhelmed by the fact Nicky liked him, and had come to terms with that, enough to make the first daring move to kiss Joe, without even knowing whether Joe liked him back. God, Nicky could be so much braver than Joe sometimes.

“This is going to take us a while isn’t it?” Nicky asked, like he was reading Joe’s mind and finding his own thoughts projected back at him.

They needed a while. Because Joe had spent the last year internalising that his feelings for Nicky were wrong and off limits, and Nicky had been convinced and had accepted that his feelings for Joe were never going to be reciprocated. The shock of learning they were both homosexual _and_ had feelings for each other, was a lot to process, and on top of the fear that if it all went wrong that an inseparable friendship built and evolved over so many years could be damaged, it was overwhelming and a little scary.

“I think we need time to figure it out,” Joe agreed, “I want it, I do, but I think we just need to be sure. This is big, Nicolò. It’s life changing.”

“I want it too,” Nicky said, “But you are right. We should not rush anything, not at the risk of what we already have…” Nicky shook his head like the potential ruin of their unbreakable friendship was too much to imagine, “So what is our plan?”

Joe bit his lip, taking in Nicky’s face, and their hands still linked together. “We figure it out together, slowly, just the two of us, and when we’re ready, we’ll make our decision and tell the Old Guard?”

“I will be sixteen in nine months,” Nicky suggested, “We could figure it out until then, the New Year? If we are ready to make our decision by then?”

Joe knew what Nicky was doing; knowing that Joe’s issues had revolved around the two year age difference between them, he was suggesting an extra year of age for the both of them. Joe was so grateful for Nicky knowing just how Joe was feeling, for caring about him, for having such a mature and level head on his shoulders.

“You would be willing to wait until your birthday?”

Nicky looked back at him flatly, “I’ve liked you for years, Joe,” Nicky said, “Another nine months is nothing.”

“For…for years?!” Joe stared back at him, “You’ve known you liked me for _years_?”

“Yes,” Nicky said, so earnest, “How could I not?”

Joe swallowed, overcome, before summoning his courage and ducking his head to press a short, swift kiss to Nicky’s lips. Nicky gasped quietly, reaching up to thread his fingers in Joe’s curls to keep him there, to prolong the kiss, just a little.

"I'm sorry I took so long," Joe apologised, when their lips parted enough that they could breathe again.

“It's alright, Joe," Nicky told him softly, "In some ways it has helped me here, because it means that I’ve already had a lot of practice at waiting. I could wait forever for you,” Nicky promised, and Joe could imagine Quynh saying something cynical like _‘that’s something only the young would promise’_ even though she and Andy had literally been together - and waited for each other - for centuries. “But would you - could you - wait for me?”

Joe could see the hope in Nicky’s face, and the devotion; it wasn’t a new expression on Nicky’s face but now Joe could read it properly, he knew exactly what it meant. He realised he had been seeing it for a long time.

“I can wait,” Joe said, “Of course I will wait for you.”

Nicky’s face lit up, and he reached up to brush his thumb just for a moment along Joe’s jaw, “Thank you Joe,” Nicky said, “I was so scared you didn’t feel the same.”

Joe leaned forward to press his forehead to Nicky’s, “I’m sorry it took me so long to realise,” Joe apologised, “But then once I did I didn’t know if you felt like I did.”

“But now we know,” Nicky said with a smile.

“Now we know,” Joe agreed, smiling back, still not quite believing all that had unfolded in the space of about fifteen minutes, “And we can figure it out together.”

Nicky’s smile was soft and beautiful and he looked so happy Joe’s heart ached, “Together,” Nicky agreed, “I…”

But they were interrupted by the front door to the house slamming and voices down the hall.

Joe and Nicky leapt apart. “I know we said we would wait to tell them,” Nicky said sheepishly, “But you should know that Quynh already knows how I feel about you.”

“Why does that not surprise me?” Joe deadpanned, and at Nicky’s frown explained, “She knows how I feel about you too.”

Nicky seemed equally unsurprised. “Do we tell Auntie Quynh then?” Nicky asked, “But then that wouldn’t be fair to Booker and Andy.”

Joe grinned, “Let’s leave her guessing while we figure things out. We will tell them all when we are ready, it only seems fair. I think Booker would be upset if Quynh found out the whole truth before him.”

“So we wait until my sixteenth birthday to tell them?” Nicky confirmed, “If we have figured things out?”

Joe nodded, hoping that he and Nicky _would_ figure out and start building something between them well before then. Joe wrapped his arm around Nicky’s shoulders to hug him and didn’t wholly let him go afterward, tracing his fingers through the soft hair at the bottom of Nicky’s neck, still amazed that he was allowed to do it; that Nicky _wanted_ him to do it. “Shall we go and carry on our match from where we left off? I think we were on seven-five to me?”

“Seven-six,” Nicky corrected, “I am taking blindsiding you as a point to me.”

Joe shrugged, sending Nicky a smile as he teased “Ok, but only because I like you so much.”

***

3rd January 1985  
Sanguinet, France

Booker always insisted that time was flying too fast; that it had already been six years since he had come across Nicky and Joe living in the Nice safe house. Andy always said that time was perceived to be moving faster by the older than by the young. Nicky had never really understood what they meant, but after he and Joe had agreed to wait nine months to see if they were ready and willing to be a couple as well as best friends, Nicky had not only experienced the time flying, but also dragging by. The time he spent getting to know Joe in a whole new sense seemed to fly and he would never have wished that time away, but the wait for his sixteenth birthday and becoming an official couple, like they had agreed, seemed to drag.

Nicky was glad they had agreed to take things slow and work it out, because he believed it had been the right decision for them to adjust to their new dynamic and confessed feelings. It had been a surprisingly sensible and logical decision for them. But still, Nicky could not deny that he was also glad that today had finally arrived. He was finally sixteen. He and Joe were no longer going to hide their relationship from their family, or the world.

Nicky had cherished the last nine months with Joe; having Joe once more sit close beside him because Joe now knew that he could, have Joe hold his hand, or kiss him coyly, or smile those smiles that were just for Nicky. It had been something private and theirs. Nicky had treasured that time, and always would, but he was ready to be able to finally be with Joe properly, because they had rather quickly established that they definitely wanted to be together, but had decided to carry on waiting until Nicky’s sixteenth to inform the Old Guard.

Despite usually being a later riser, Joe had always made the effort to be the one to wake Nicky up on Nicky’s birthday every year since they had met, so Nicky had fully expected Joe to be the one to come and drag him out of bed for his birthday breakfast. What Nicky hadn’t expected was to properly open his eyes to the feel of Joe’s lips pressing softly against his. Nicky blinked up into those warm brown eyes.

“Happy Birthday, Nicky,” Joe murmured.

“Thank you Joe,” Nicky said, sending him a sleepy smile.

“How was that for your sixteenth birthday kiss?” Joe asked.

“It was good,” Nicky said, “But I wasn’t ready for it. I think I need another one?”

Joe grinned, eyes crinkling, and ducked down to kiss Nicky once more before pulling back and - as all their kisses had done before now - it felt like the easiest thing in the world. “Breakfast’s ready,” Joe said.

Nicky smiled and hurried himself out of bed to get dressed and let Joe usher him to the kitchen like he did every year. But this year when Nicky was dressed, Joe held out his hand for Nicky to take.

“Are we ready to let them know?” Joe asked, suddenly looking a little unsure.

Nicky reached out to lace his fingers with Joe’s. “I’m ready if you are.”

Joe smiled back at him and led him down the hallway by the hand.

Despite knowing that Quynh already knew about his feelings for Joe, and about Joe’s in return, and despite knowing that Andy and Booker loved them and would undoubtedly support them, there was still an inexplicable ball of nerves rolling around in Nicky’s stomach as they entered the kitchen hand in hand and faced the Old Guard, where they were all sitting at the table.

Nicky had imagined that this would go a lot of ways and of all the things that the Old Guard might say, or how they might react. And for all the scenarios he had mentally prepared for, he hadn’t quite imagined the Old Guard’s gazes simultaneously dropping to where Joe’s elegant fingers were entwined with his own paler ones, Quynh shrieking in delight, and rather than addressing Nicky and Joe, immediately turning to Andy and Booker and declaring, “You owe me an Anglo-Saxon coin hoard.”

***

The boys had looked a little surprised at how unsurprised Booker, Andy and Quynh had been but really, Booker had seen it coming for some time. He had been prepared for something like this to one day happen ever since Quynh had told Booker and Andy to ask the boys if they wanted to be registered as brothers or not, six years before. Even then Quynh had suspected that the boys’ affection for each other might develop into something more than friendship, and the moment the boys had decided not to be registered as brothers Booker had known that Quynh might be right.

Over the following years Booker had seen Joe and Nicky’s friendship and bond with each other flourish and grow; grow into something in their teens that Booker believed to be romantic affection. He had assumed them both oblivious to their developing feelings, as they remained overly tactile but clearly unaware, until he noticed Nicky starting to steal lingering glances at Joe when Joe wasn’t looking. Just under two years ago something had changed, and as Nicky’s gazes continued, Joe had started drawing away, almost like he felt guilty for it, being less tactile and less constantly at Nicky’s side. Booker had not wanted to ask them about it, because it was none of his business to pry and he knew that the boys would come to him if and when they were ready to, but at that point, with Joe keeping his distance almost deliberately, and Nicky looking hurt about it, it had been hard to leave them to their own devices. But Booker had known they would sort it out, because Nicky and Joe had always been able to handle themselves and each other. He had been right. Nine months ago the boys must have talked it out, because they were back in each other’s orbits again, the lingering glances and touches coming from both sides, but if they had come to some kind of mutual realisation, they still weren’t openly acting on it.

Until today, Nicky’s sixteenth birthday, and then it finally made sense. They had been waiting until Nicky was sixteen.

“You aren’t surprised,” Joe said to Booker later, coming to find him in his favourite reading spot. “About me and Nicky?”

“No Joe,” Booker said, putting the book aside on the arm of the chair, “I had an idea of what was going on with the two of you.”

Joe frowned “But you didn’t say anything?”

“I trusted that you two would work it out and let me know when you were ready.” Booker regarded Joe’s frown; a rare thing to grace a face so prone to smiling. “Joe…” Booker shifted to one side in invitation and Joe moved immediately, stuffing himself next to Booker on an armchair that wasn’t really big enough anymore for both Booker and an eighteen year old. But Booker moved to accommodate him as he had always done when Joe was smaller and needed reassurance or comfort. “Joe,” Booker said again, “You know that even if I had been surprised this morning, I still would love you both and accept what you have? You know that, don’t you?”

“I know,” Joe said, “I know but there was still a part of me that was scared. I know how long you have known Andy and Quynh, and I remember you telling us about how it was them that made you understand that homosexual relationships are…” Joe trailed off, squinting at him, “Did you tell us that story on purpose? So that we knew you would accept us?”

Booker grinned sheepishly, shrugging his shoulder, “Maybe. I wanted you to know that I would support you no matter what.”

Joe’s eyes were glistening as he moved abruptly to wrap his arms around Booker’s neck to hug him; always the more openly emotional of Booker’s adopted boys. Booker hummed in understanding and soothed a comforting hand over the back of Joe’s curls that were for once free of Joe’s favoured baseball headwear.

“Thank you Booker,” Joe said, “Thank you.”

“No need to thank me, Joe,” Booker vowed, “As long as you boys are happy and healthy, that is all I care about.”

Joe wiped at his eyes with his sleeve, “We only decided this when Nicky was fifteen and old enough to…”

“I know you, Joe,” Booker halted his explanation calmly, realising what Joe was worrying about, “I know who you are. You made sensible, mature choices and I’m proud of you.”

Joe hugged Booker again, burying his face into Booker’s shoulder. He said “I love you,” followed by something unintelligibly muffled by Booker’s shirt, and Booker was not entirely sure that Joe had said ‘Booker’, because it sounded more like ‘Baba’, or ‘Papa’.

“Hey,” Booker said, deciding not to bring it up because it was the first time Joe had ever slipped up and potentially called Booker the same thing he had called his real father, “Hey,” Booker pulled Joe to him again, “I love you too, mon fils.”

***

10th May 1985  
Sanguinet, France

Four months after Nicky’s sixteenth and Joe and Nicky ‘publically’ announcing their relationship, not much had drastically changed in their dynamic. They had been so close before that they just stayed the same, a little more tactile and affectionate, sure - they held hands more, snuggled closer on the sofa, kissed each other - but that was about it. Booker didn’t really know what he had expected, but found the sweet, tentative and innocent way Joe and Nicky were easing into being a couple incredibly endearing. They were each other’s first boyfriends, so seemed to be figuring things out slowly, in their own way, as they always did.

It was hard to ignore the lingering knowledge that in September Joe would be moving to Bordeaux, where he had been accepted into an art course at the university; having wanted to stay as close to his second family as possible. Joe had considered commuting, but for the ease of attending his lectures, and in order to make new friends and gain a bit of independence, he had been encouraged not just by Booker, but by Andy, Quynh and even Nicky as well, to at least live in student accommodation for the first year.

Booker had been there when Joe had been stressing over the accommodation forms, all registered under ‘Joseph Le Livre’. “I can come and visit all the time,” Nicky had reassured, watching Joe in that earnest way Nicky had.

“I’ll miss him,” Nicky had told Booker later, “But I want him to be able to enjoy his time at university and make friends and experience it properly. I don’t want to hold him back from that.”

Booker had wrapped his arm around Nicky’s shoulder, grateful to have had a hand in raising two such considerate teenagers. A miracle, really, when a mere decade ago Booker had been deep into a decades-long wallow in his own self-pity, unsure whether he would ever be able to stop his self-sabotage; unable to look after himself half the time, let alone anyone else.

With Joe’s university place confirmed, they had all been trying to focus on the time Joe had left with them in permanent residence, and not the time left until he wouldn’t be there anymore, especially on a day like today. Because today was Booker’s birthday.

It was something Booker had not celebrated since he had become immortal. Every year it had come and gone and Booker had refused to acknowledge anything other than the bottom of a bottle. He had never told Andy and Quynh his exact date of birth but he always presumed that they had guessed because he had an annual habit of being blind drunk on 10th May. But when Joe and Nicky had come into his life in 1969, they had asked him when his birthday was, and Booker (surprising Andy, Quynh, and even himself) had been honest with his answer.

“I was born on the 10th of May,” he had said, “1770.”

Some quick calculation from Joe had him exclaiming “You are 209?!”

“Yes,” Booker had said, nowhere near excited at the thought as Joe, “209.”

He had thought that that had been the end of it, but only eight months into living in Sanguinet with the boys - Quynh and Andy still keeping their distance at that time and on a mission - Booker had arrived in the kitchen on 10th May 1980 to the boys standing there with breakfast ready and wishing him a Happy 210th Birthday. Booker had waited until he was alone to cry. It was the first birthday in one hundred and sixty years that he hadn’t gotten drunk. He had instead spent a great day playing football at the beach with the boys.

The boys had made it a tradition, and in the years that had followed, Booker had remained sober and happy on his birthday. This year was no exception.

“215!” Joe crowed, “You are getting old, old man!”

“How dare you,” Quynh exclaimed with a wink, “Basti is a mere child still in his youth!”

“What does that make us then?” Nicky questioned.

“Newborns,” Andy told them, moving forwards to embrace Booker in that encompassing, warm way she had, “Happy Birthday Booker,” she told him fondly, handing over a wrapped gift that turned out to be a first edition Dickens.

Joe’s present was a baseball cap that matched one of his own.

When Booker tried it on Quynh complained that “Basti somehow even makes _baseball caps_ look good,” and when Joe had been good naturedly offended, Quynh made her usual argument, “You know I cannot stand to see my Yusuf’s curls squashed and hidden away so.”

There was cake, there was football, there were presents, and like every year since that 210th birthday, Booker was glad that he had lived long enough to once more be grateful to be alive. 

***

1st September 1985  
Bordeaux, France

“Are you sure you have everything you need?”

Joe tried to stop his smile from wobbling as he swallowed around the thick lump in his throat and turned to Booker. “I do, Book,” Joe promised, his traitorous voice wavering, “Thank you.”

“Are you _sure_?” Booker said, “Do you have enough francs? If you need more money just let me know, or if you’ve forgotten anything just call me, ok? I’m only an hour’s drive away…”

“He gets it, _Dad_ ,” Quynh teased, steering him towards Joe, “Hug the kid and let’s get going or we are going to ‘cramp his style’ when the other students get here.”

Joe ducked into Booker’s arms; he had not grown as tall as Booker, or as broad, so Joe still felt small whenever he was enveloped into a hug. “I’m going to miss you,” Joe whispered into Booker’s shoulder.

“I’m going to miss you too,” Booker told him, reassured him, “But I’m just an hour away. We’re all just an hour away. Remember that.”

Joe hadn’t openly expressed his nerves about moving away, but he knew that his family were aware of it anyway. Joe had been dealing with abandonment issues for the majority of his life, and since finding and building this new family with Nicky and the Old Guard, this was the very first time he was going to be away from them for longer than a few hours. It was going to be a huge change, and he knew that he needed to do this; for his independence, to grow, to focus on his studies, and build new friendships, but the fear of his family leaving him here and going home without him was terrifying him.

He tried to hide it, as Quynh and then Andy hugged him and told him that they would miss him but would see him in a week’s time, but he knew they all knew how scared he was.

Nicky’s eyes were sad as he moved forwards, taking Joe’s hands. “We’re not leaving you,” Nicky promised him, “It’s you leaving _us_ this time, remember?”

Nicky had promised the same thing the night before, when Joe couldn’t sleep and confessed his nerves and fears into the dark. Nicky, who had apparently also not been able to sleep, had immediately turned over in bed to hold him close. They had lain curled together, limbs tangled, whispering to each other until they had fallen asleep, and just before Joe had finally surrendered to sleep, his forehead touching Nicky’s, Nicky had murmured it into his cheek.

Joe looked at Nicky, beautiful Nicky who Joe had come to love with his whole heart, and felt overwhelmed. Nicky was almost at a height with Joe now, his growth spurt having finally gotten going. The last eight months with Nicky had been the most comfortable and happy of Joe’s life so far. They had been able to be openly affectionate with their hugs and their holds and their kisses, but had decided early on to wait until they were both ready for anything more than that. He hadn’t been separated from Nicky for longer than a day since he was ten, and had grown so comfortable and familiar with Nicky’s comfort and affection that Joe didn’t know how well he would handle the change of only seeing Nicky once a week, if that. But with his family’s support, and their reminders that they weren’t leaving him behind - that actually it was him making the move - he knew he had to give it ago. He knew he had to at least try the ‘civilian life’ so that the Old Guard might consider him joining the team, and Nicky wouldn’t forgive him if Joe missed out on opportunities just for Nicky’s sake. Just as Nicky had reminded him: ‘we have all the time in the world Joe, even if we aren’t immortal’.

“I’m going to miss you, Nicolò,” Joe told him, eyes searching Nicky’s seaglass eyes, wanting to remember them perfectly until he could next see them again, his gaze tracing Nicky’s face, which was losing the last of its youthful roundness.

“Joe - Yusuf - I’m going to miss you too. So much.”

“I love you,” Joe said, voice choked; the first time he had ever said the words to Nicky in the context of their new and blossoming relationship.

“Joe…” Nicky’s voice wobbled, and they move forwards until their lips met for a sweet, short, farewell kiss. When they parted ways Nicky’s eyes were shining, his lips drawn tight as he tried not to cry, “I love you too.”

Watching his family walk out of the door was agonising, and Joe sat on his bed and cried when they were gone. But when he heard the voices of his new flatmates beyond the door, he dried his eyes, freshened up, put a smile on his face and went out to join them.

By the evening he had three new friends, and was on the phone to Nicky, telling him about them.

“Booker cried on the way home. He was wearing sunglasses so he thought we didn’t notice,” Nicky told him, “It was awful.”

“Give him a big hug from me, please?”

“Always,” Nicky promised.

***

16th December 1985  
Sanguinet, France

Nicky and Joe had said that they were going to try and meet up once a week. Although they had stuck to that for the first month or so - Nicky and the Old Guard visiting Bordeaux or Joe coming home - visits got fewer and further between as Joe became busier with his lectures and started getting coursework, had made friends, and was getting to know Bordeaux more. Nicky hadn’t wanted to interrupt that, but he had also been kept busy with his own life; his sports teams, home schooling with Booker, and target shooting and weaponry with Andy and Quynh.

The Old Guard had been unexpectedly busy for most of November and the start of December with an unexpected cover-up job for a previous mission, so hadn’t been able to take Nicky to Bordeaux or pick Joe up every weekend. Nicky had also been involved with their research work to help with the cover up, which he had enjoyed immensely. He had no doubt that he wanted to one day join the Old Guard and accompany them around the world on missions. Not that he had dared tell them that yet. He had been enjoying getting some one-to-one time with each of his guardians, spending the day with Booker discussing poetry or history and learning his school subjects, snuggling up with Quynh on the sofa to watch films or helping her cook all kinds of dishes, and having Andy continuing to teach him long-range shooting.

He and Joe had talked on the phone, of course, almost every day, and Nicky knew Joe was thriving at university, just as Nicky and the Old Guard had always known he would. Nicky made sure Joe knew that Nicky was doing well too, keeping busy with sport and school. Nicky also liked to remind Joe that in Joe’s absence Nicky was able to play as much Italian pop music as he liked.

With all that considered, it wasn’t until Joe returning to Sanguinet for the university's christmas break that Nicky and Joe got to spend proper quality time together again. They had pushed their single beds together long before Joe had gone to university, so slipping into their makeshift double bed together, in some ways, felt like they had never left.

They lay on their sides, facing each other.

“I’ve missed you so much,” Joe said quietly into the space between them, his hand moving under the covers until it rested under Nicky’s t-shirt on the bare skin of his hip. The weight of Joe’s hand on his hip felt good, and safe, and familiar.

Nicky moved to trace the backs of his fingers across Joe’s face. “I’ve missed you too, Joe.”

Joe smiled at him through the dim light, his hand moving to smooth up Nicky’s arm from wrist to shoulder. “What the…” Joe exclaimed, squeezing Nicky’s bicep and moving to his shoulder. “When did these muscles happen?”

Nicky smirked, “When I carried on weapons training and you exchanged a sword for a sketching pencil.”

“Touché,” Joe laughed quietly. “You’ll be as big and tall as me soon.”

“Bigger and taller,” Nicky countered, since he was almost the same height and broadness as Joe already.

“Hmm,” Joe hummed, “I doubt it.”

Nicky made a lightening quick decision and moved on top of Joe, catching Joe off guard as Nicky pinned him lightly down. “I disagree,” Nicky breathed, as Joe’s big, dark eyes looked up at him.

They both seemed to still, breath catching, in anticipation of what might come next.

In the months they had shared before Joe going to university, and on the odd weekend Nicky had been able to go and visit Joe, they had eased into acts of intimacy. They had made out on the bed for hours, hands wandering, learning each other in new ways, but until now they had only ever gotten themselves or each other off by hand, while muffling the sounds they made so that the Old Guard or Joe’s flatmates couldn’t hear. There had been an unspoken understanding between them that they would only move onto more than that when they were both ready and confident to do so.

The intense moment broke when Nicky crashed down onto Joe, Joe ready to receive the kiss with soft lips and a wicked tongue, his arms coming up to wrap around Nicky and hold him close. Nicky moved his hips against Joe’s. The rub of the fabric of his underwear and the feel of Joe’s own interest hard against his own had Nicky moaning softly and ducking his head to press his face into the juncture of Joe’s neck and shoulder to breathe him in.

“Nicky…” Joe’s quiet gasp had Nicky shuddering, losing his rhythm, “Nicky, please…”

Nicky knew what Joe was asking for, and Nicky was more than willing to give it. He pulled up Joe’s t-shirt to get his palm on Joe’s flat stomach, before sliding it down, easing the elastic of Joe’s underwear down until Joe was free of them.

Nicky wrapped his hand around Joe’s cock and with the aid of pre-cum started to slickly move his hand at the pace and tightness and thoroughness that he had learned Joe liked. Joe’s hands moved constantly over Nicky’s body, as though he were trying to distract himself enough to hold out longer; his fingers tracing up Nicky’s sides, clenching in his hair, smoothing down to squeeze the flesh of Nicky’s ass. Nicky watched Joe’s face all the while, seeing the glazed arousal and devotion in his eyes and Nicky always found it hard to hold such a gaze without getting too worked up himself. It was when Joe’s eyes shut, Nicky knew well by now, that meant Joe was getting close. His breath started to stutter and speed up, and when his muscles spasmed, Nicky knew from experience just when to hold out a hand to lightly cover Joe’s mouth for Joe to groan into so that he didn’t wake the whole house as he came over Nicky’s fist.

“Nico…” Joe gasped softly when Nicky released him, pulling him down for a kiss.

Nicky knew Joe would be sensitive, so moved off of him to grab tissues from the nightstand to clean off his hand. As soon as he was done Joe’s hands were on his arm, encouraging him to lie down so that Joe could roll on top of him instead. Joe ducked to kiss him soundly.

“Nicky,” Joe murmured against his lips, “What do you need? What do you want?”

Nicky opened his mouth to automatically blurt out the first thing that came to his head, but swallowed it down.

“Nicky?” Joe asked, watching his face closely, “What is it?”

“I…” Nicky started awkwardly, “I’ve been thinking about something, imagining it, and well, only if you wanted to try it I…”

“Nicky,” Joe interrupted with a smile that was more than a little interested, “What is it? You can tell me. Always.”

“I was wondering what your mouth might feel like,” Nicky said, watching Joe’s reaction, “But only if you want to!”

“I want to,” Joe said immediately, “I’ve been curious about trying it for ages so yes, yes I want to.”

“Well,” Nicky said, relieved that Joe had been imagining the same thing, “Consider me a happy test subject.”

Joe kissed him again, before moving to pepper kisses down Nicky’s jaw to his neck, and Nicky could feel Joe smiling against his skin when Nicky puffed out a laugh as Joe kissed a particularly ticklish spot. Joe continued to move down to Nicky’s stomach, pushing up his t-shirt to get at his skin, and Nicky squirmed under him, heart fluttering wildly with anticipation and arousal. He glanced down as Joe eased his cock out of his underwear and wrapped his hand around the base, but he had to look away again the moment Joe stuck his tongue out to lick a broad stripe up his length and over the head to see what he tasted like, for fear of finishing immediately at the sight of it. And if that had felt intense, Joe then taking him into his mouth was something else entirely. Joe took his time, experimenting with moving his mouth and his hand, different paces, different suction, rolling his tongue, clearly figuring out what wound Nicky up. Attuned to Nicky’s soft, desperate sounds and the way Nicky was clenching his hands into Joe's shoulder and the covers beneath him, Joe knew when to back off to allow Nicky time to recover from almost tipping over the edge and ending it all too soon.

It didn’t take long for Nicky to be shaking with the effort not to come, and was biting on his own hand to keep quiet. “Please Joe,” Nicky begged, from beneath his hand, “Please.”

Joe hummed in acknowledgment and pleasure at hearing Nicky beg, and the vibration around Nicky’s cock was apparently all it took to nudge Nicky over the edge.

Nicky stared up at the ceiling, panting and shaking like he had just run a marathon. Joe moved to lie beside him, pulling a face as he swallowed.

“Interesting,” Joe said.

“Interesting?!” Nicky protested, “You blow my mind and then just call it 'interesting'?!”

Joe grinned and leaned down to kiss Nicky, open mouthed, tongues dancing, and Nicky tasted himself on Joe’s tongue. “Huh,” Nicky said, already imagining what Joe might taste like, “Interesting.”

Joe laughed, smoothing over the last tremors of Nicky’s body and settling in beside him. “It’s good to be back here with you,” Joe said.

Nicky could not have said it better himself.

***

28th April 1986  
Bordeaux, France

“What’s going on?” Joe asked, not bothering to hide his concern. Booker, Andy, Quynh and Nicky had turned up with barely an hours’ forewarning at his university accommodation. They were all sitting with him in the kitchen, the grim expressions on their faces worrying him. “What’s happening?”

“Something has happened in Ukraine,” Andy said, “We have to go.”

“A mission?” Joe asked, “Is Nicky going with you? Is that why…”

“Nicky won’t be going. It will just be the three of us,” Andy said indicating herself, Booker and Quynh, “Joe, there’s been an accident at a nuclear power plant in Ukraine. We are going to go to help. Neither of you can come; radiation poisoning won’t affect us like it would affect you.”

“Nicky has agreed to look after the house and do whatever research we need,” Booker leaned forwards to take Joe’s hand in his, and hold Nicky’s with the other, “I just need to know that the two of you are going to be ok without us being here.”

“How long are you going to be gone?” Joe asked, already anticipating what the answer might be.

“However long it takes,” Andy said.

Joe nodded, looking to Nicky, whose face was as serious as Joe had ever seen it. Joe was nineteen now, and enjoying university and his life in Bordeaux, and he knew Nicky would be able to handle himself at home too, but he could not help but worry about his family, and Nicky being at home all alone.

“Nicky all alone at the house…” Joe frowned, “I can try and get public transport back when I can but…”

“Actually,” Nicky sheepishly dug in his pocket and held something aloft, “Booker and Andy have been teaching me to drive. I have free reign of the car so I can drive to see you.”

“Is that a licence?!” Joe demanded, momentarily distracted.

Nicky, still nine months too young to have a French driving licence shrugged, eyeing Booker with sly satisfaction, “Perks of having a forger as a father.”

Which meant that Joe’s slight affront at Nicky learning to drive before him, which was in turn overshadowed by the concern of and for his guardians going to the place of a nuclear disaster for an unknown amount of time, was at least made a little brighter by the look on Booker’s face at having had Nicky refer to him as his father.

Joe and Nicky hugged Booker, Andy and Quynh tight before they left for the airport, begging them to stay safe, immortal or not. Nicky decided to stay the night with Joe, and Joe was grateful; they needed all the comfort they could get.

***

10th May 1986  
Kyiv/Kiev, Ukraine

Andy knew that this wasn’t quite the birthday Booker had been expecting, and that it had nothing of the happiness of the previous year, or the five years that had come before it. She knew how terribly he was missing Joe and Nicky, because she and Quynh were missing them too. She had heard Booker’s end of the birthday phone call from Joe and Nicky that morning, of them asking him to stay safe, that they would make up for his missed birthday next year, that they loved him. But the phone call had been short and swift, because the Old Guard had had to get out and continue their work.

Andy had been alive for thousands and thousands of years and had experienced almost every stage of weaponry and energy source known to man, and nothing had scared her as much as the inventions of the current century; the invention of nuclear reactors and nuclear weapons. She had seen the absolutely devastating aftermath of the horrific nuclear bomb attacks on Hiroshima and Nagasaki and all of those who had suffered because of it. She had also heard of and seen previous nuclear accidents at power plants and the horrors that could cause, but this, Chernobyl, was by far the worst nuclear accident she had ever heard of or experienced. Nuclear attacks and accidents caused devastation on such a huge, terrifying scale. Here at Chernobyl she feared and mourned for the impact on the power plant staff, the responders, the locals, the miners and volunteers, the wildlife, the wider area, the news of people from the site dying daily from acute radiation sickness…it was devastating. Harrowing.

She, Quynh and Booker had mainly been involved with helping the evacuated locals. Four days ago schools in Kiev and Gomel had been closed and children sent away. The number of people forced to leave the area was in the hundreds of thousands, of which over a hundred thousand weren’t allowed to return home.

Andy watched as Booker stopped playing football with a number of local children, having successfully kept them busy for an hour, and encouraged them to continue without him while he had a break. He sat down close to where Andy was, so Andy was in earshot when a local woman approached him. She looked tired but relieved, and Andy assumed her own children were among the ones playing football.

“Thank you for helping to keep them occupied,” the woman said, “It has been hard to keep up a brave face all the time.”

“It is no problem at all, honestly,” Booker replied, “I’m Sebastien, by the way.”

“Olena,” she introduced herself in return, “You are very good with them,” she smiled gratefully, gesturing to the children, “Do you have children yourself?”

“I do,” Booker said, “Maximilian, Olivier, Jean-Pierre, Joseph and Nicolas.” Andy should have been surprised when the latter two were said without Booker missing a single beat, like he hadn't had to consider it at all, but she found she wasn't. By this point she wasn't surprised in the least.

“Five boys,” Olena said.

“Yes,” Booker agreed, “Five sons.”

“Quite a handful.”

Booker looked like he was trying to hold back tears; for the people of Kiev, for all the families evacuated, for the relief that his boys weren’t in the same situation, and Andy knew all of this because she was feeling exactly the same way.

“Yes,” Booker agreed, “But also the best things that have ever happened to me.”


	8. 1986 - 1988

27th June 1986  
Bordeaux, France

Nicky blinked in shock at the young man who answered the door to the student accommodation; a young man with a shadow of stubble and a closely shaved head.

“Joe?” Nicky asked, staring.

“Nicky!” Joe beamed, his eyes travelling over Nicky’s face, taking him in, “Come in! Come in!” he ushered Nicky into the hallway, “Look at your hair!”

Andy usually cut Nicky’s hair, but with her, Booker and Auntie Quynh still in Ukraine, Nicky hadn’t had a haircut in a few months and it was getting long; the strands at the front constantly fell into his eyes. But while it was indeed longer than Joe had ever seen it, it was nowhere _near_ as drastic a change as the one Nicky was seeing before him.

“Look at _my_ hair?!” Nicky exclaimed with a laugh, “What about _your_ hair?!”

Joe’s hand instinctively moved to his head, but instead of meeting curls, his palm smoothed self-consciously back over short, shorn hairs. “What do you think?” Joe asked uncertainly, like he fully expected Nicky to hate it.

Joe with a shorn head was something Nicky had never seen. As long as he had known Joe he had known Joe’s wonderful natural curls. This was a different look, but it was beautiful, of course it was, because Joe always looked beautiful. The lack of hair accentuated the angles of Joe’s face and the cut of his jaw in different ways. And Nicky could not deny that he felt a little hot just looking at him.

“It looks good,” Nicky told him, enjoying how Joe lit up at the praise and how his brown eyes heated when Nicky added “You always look good.”

“So do you,” Joe said, immediately reaching out. Nicky stepped forward into a long, warm hug. “I have missed you,” Joe told him.

After the Old Guard had left in April to help with the Chernobyl nuclear accident, Joe and Nicky had at first seen each other every weekend; Nicky driving to Bordeaux to stay, often bringing research that he was doing for the Old Guard so that Joe could help too. But in mid-May Joe’s university work and end of year assignments had reached their peak, and he had been working flat out for almost a month, so they hadn’t been able to meet for weeks.

Nicky closed his eyes, feeling at peace in Joe’s warm embrace and getting used to the feeling of the lack of curls that usually tickled the side of his face. “I missed you too,” Nicky told him, unable to stop himself lifting a hand to brush it over the short hairs, amazed at how different it felt.

“I have never seen your hair this long,” Joe observed softly, sliding his hand into Nicky’s hair and tugging it gently.

Nicky moved his head, not caring that it caused Joe’s fingers to pull a little harder, to murmur “Do you like it?” against Joe’s lips.

Joe hummed in confirmation before closing the distance to kiss him. Joe then moved back far enough to flick fondly at the ring in Nicky’s right ear, “These still suit you too. Very much.”

Nicky reached up to touch the earrings; one slim ring in each earlobe. He had had his ears pierced back in early May while visiting Joe in the city.

Joe caught his hand, and after kissing Nicky’s wrist, leaned in to press his lips just underneath Nicky’s left ear and the earring. He then used the opportunity of Nicky’s distraction to snag Nicky’s bag from his other hand.

“I’ll take that,” Joe grinned, ever the gentleman, before leading the way to his room, carrying Nicky’s bag for him.

“Who did your hair?” Nicky asked, trailing after him, unashamedly smitten, “Sabine?”

Joe laughed, “Who else?”

Joe had made plenty of friends during his first year of university, but his closest were his housemates Sara, Marie and Alain, and his course mates Thierry and Sabine. Nicky had met all five of Joe’s closest friends multiple times over the months, and liked them all very much. They all knew of Joe and Nicky’s relationship, under the story that Booker and Andy had come up with years ago; that Andrea Mackie and Sebastien le Livre were best friends and had raised their sons as best friends, that Sebastien had home schooled both Joe and Nicky whenever Andrea worked abroad, and that Joe and Nicky had slowly recognised their feelings for each other.

Sabine in particular had fallen in love with their story and had taken the quickest and strongest liking to Nicky. She was a particularly outgoing personality, very passionate about art, fashion and styling, so when Joe warned, “She may well want to do your hair too when she sees how long it is, you know.” Nicky believed it.

“I wouldn’t mind,” Nicky said.

“Good,” Joe smiled fondly, bumping their shoulders together as he ushered Nicky into his room, “Because she has invited us out for lunch tomorrow and wants to help us pick outfits for our night out.”

Nicky knew Joe meant the warning playfully and was actually looking forward to it. Because Nicky was too. “That sounds good,” he said.

He was excited for this weekend. It was Joe’s last weekend at university before his summer break. That Friday afternoon they planned to see Joe’s art in an exhibition of student artwork and have dinner with Joe’s housemates. The next day they were to meet with Sabine and then go for a night out with Joe’s friends (thanks to Booker’s expert crafting of a fake ID for Nicky, Nicky would be able to go out despite being six months too young to legally drink) and then after a day of recovery on Sunday, Nicky would drive them both home to Sanguinet for the summer on Monday.

Joe closed the bedroom door and dropped Nicky’s bag on the bed. Nicky could see Joe’s bags already packed and ready to go for summer, and felt a rush at seeing how excited Joe was to be coming home too.

“So,” Joe said, “What do you want to do first?”

Nicky couldn’t stop his eyebrow from quirking.

Joe’s lips spread into a slow smirk, “Oh I see,” Joe said, “It’s like that is it?”

Nicky crossed the room to Joe in a matter of paces and used both hands to hold either side of Joe’s curl-less head, feeling the soft bristle of hairs under his palms. He kissed Joe firmly and thoroughly before pushing Joe back enough that Joe had to sit down on the edge of his bed. Nicky then dropped to his knees between Joe’s legs.

“Oh my god,” Joe declared, his fingers finding their way into Nicky’s hair.

“Honestly Joe,” Nicky tutted before he got his mouth full, “Lord’s name in vain.”

***

Nicky stayed close to Joe’s side during their visit to the university's art exhibition, enjoying Joe's enthusiasm as he pointed out pieces done by his course mates. Nicky was quite content to let Joe lead him around until he spotted a piece across the room and pulled Joe in that direction; transfixed.

“That one is yours,” Nicky said, without any prompting, because he just _knew,_ even from far away.

It was a painting that had three parts to it, but instead of looking segmented and jarringly separate to each other, they all melded beautifully together. The sky went from sunrise in the first third, to day, to sunset in the last; the colours flowing so seamlessly that they did not look like three separate skies at all. In the distance, a beautifully detailed ancient landscape flowed into a town in the middle, which flowed into a modern city on the left hand side, with tower blocks and the glow of electric lights.

In the foreground were three figures looking away from the observer and towards their respective landscape. The first figure was a woman with brunette hair, dressed in ancient leather armour, a horse at her side. Nicky did not need to see the subtle shadow of a labrys attached the horse’s saddle to know that it was Andy as she had described herself to Joe for Joe’s sketchbook of through-the-ages portraits of the Old Guard.

The second figure, looking at the town, was a blond haired man dressed in 19th century civilian clothing, holding an early design of a bicycle. One of Booker’s favourite things to do with Nicky and Joe as children was to take them cycling, racing through in the nature park around Sanguinet.

The last figure was a woman with long black hair, dressed all in black leather, standing next to a sleek black motorbike. Quynh was going to absolute _adore_ Joe’s depiction of her.

“I know they don’t like their faces shown in public image,” Joe said, “But I figured they wouldn’t be angry with me for this.” He waved at the depicted backs of their guardians, identifiable only to Nicky and Joe.

“They won’t be angry, Joe,” Nicky vowed, awestruck and unable to take his eyes off the painting, adoring the little details, the seamless flow of one time into another, the many layered statements it held, and the undeniable display of Joe’s pure talent, “They are going to love it.”

***

28th June 1986  
Bordeaux, France

“I can’t believe Sabine convinced you into the mullet,” Joe called into the bedroom with utter glee.

“I can’t believe she’s convincing me to dress like this,” Nicky bemoaned.

“And I can’t believe you two don’t know me well enough to not have seen this coming,” Sabine protested, “Now hold still, Nicky, you’ll ruin your eyeliner.”

“His _what_ now?” Joe asked in delight, about to ignore Sabine’s order that he couldn’t see Nicky until Sabine was done with him.

“Joseph! Don’t even think about it!” Sabine called shrilly from the other side of the door before Joe could even fully turn the handle.

“Fine!” Joe surrendered.

He and Nicky had spent the afternoon with Sabine as she sized them up and insisted on shopping for them to get them both outfits for the night. As Joe had expected, she had taken one look at Nicky’s lovely long hair and had begged to do something with it. Somehow Nicky even made a mullet style look good. He made it look damn good. Sabine had then brought the outfits and her make-up and some alcohol over to get ready at Joe’s flat with him, Nicky, Sara, Marie and Alain. They were going to meet Thierry and a few others at the club later in the evening. 

Sabine had had Nicky at her mercy for a good half an hour. Joe was still waiting for his own turn.

“Ok!” Sabine called finally, “He’s done! Consider this the prettiest of gifts with love from me to you.”

Joe had never entered a room so quickly, and once there he stopped dead in his tracks and stared. Nicky looked _incredible._ Sabine had dressed Nicky in tight black trousers that accentuated his long legs, and a loose-fitting silky black shirt that was unbuttoned enough to expose most of his chest. Sabine had darkened Nicky’s eyes with liner and shadow, and with all of that also accompanied by his hair and the rings in his ears, Joe couldn’t take his eyes off him. As Joe moved to stand in front of Nicky he realised that Nicky’s shoes had slight heels as well, which made up the 3cm of height between them and put him at eye level with Joe.

Joe looked straight into Nicky’s sea-green eyes and said in Arabic so that Sabine could not understand him, “In all the world I have never seen anything as beautiful to me as you are, Nicolò.”

Joe said it with absolute sincerity, and Nicky knew it, because he ducked his head, ears flushing, as he smiled a pleased little smile. “You flatter me too much, Joe.”

Joe shook his head with a fond smile, wrapping his fingers around Nicky’s wrists to keep him close, “I don’t flatter you enough.”

“You two make me feel so bilingual and uncultured,” Sabine complained, “I take it you were saying nice things, Joseph?”

“Oui,” Joe said, switching back to French for Sabine’s benefit, “Very nice things.”

Sabine looked _very_ proud of herself, “I know, I am a genius, yes? Now come along, Joe,” she said, and Joe reluctantly let go of Nicky, “I am going to dress you in an outfit so tight Nicky is going to have a heart attack,” she winked at Nicky and then started to usher him outside.

“But…” Nicky started to protest.

“Go and find Alain and talk about his Religious Studies course or whatever it was you two made friends about last time,” Sabine ordered, “Alain!” she called down the hallway, “Come and keep Nicky company! He has questions about your course!”

Alain appeared almost immediately at the chance to discuss his university work. Nicky really did have genuine interest in taking the same course at the university and had befriended Alain on his last visit, so Joe didn’t feel too bad about leaving Nicky to his own devices until Sabine had Joe ready to go. He checked in with Nicky though, a silent question with his eyes, that Nicky acknowledged with a soft bump of his head against Joe’s, before going to talk to Alain, who was already complimenting Nicky on how cool he looked.

“You did an amazing job,” Joe said to Sabine, still staring after Nicky.

“I know I did,” Sabine said, “And now it’s your turn.”

***

The club they were going to was owned by one of Thierry’s uncles. Thierry had booked them their own VIP lounge area separate from the dance floor, so they were allowed immediate entry without any fuss at all, though Joe knew Nicky had brought the fake ID Booker had given him, in case they had bothered to check.

Sabine had gone a little more understated for Joe’s look, but not by much. Claiming to have taken inspiration from Prince and the cover of his latest album - Parade - Sabine had bought a tight-fitting men’s grey t-shirt and had altered it into a crop top. She had dressed Joe in high-waisted black trousers and the crop top, which exposed a decent amount of stomach, and had given him a leather jacket to wear over the top. She hadn’t touched Joe's face with make-up as much as Nicky’s; only getting away with a small amount of eyeliner. Nicky had stared at Joe’s midriff for a good while after Sabine had finally let him see Joe, and she joked that maybe she _had_ actually caused his brain or his heart to short circuit. While Sabine and the others were getting equally as dressed up, Joe and Nicky had sat on the sofa with their drinks, unable to stop looking at and admiring each other. Joe had kept his arm around Nicky’s shoulders, tracing his fingers across Nicky’s exposed collarbone, just as Nicky kept ghosting his fingers over Joe’s exposed abs. Even on the way to the club Nicky’s hand kept finding a reason to meet Joe’s bare skin.

Once at the club they hit the lit disco floor for an hour or two, before they all decided to head to their private VIP area for more drinks. Joe and Nicky sat pressed against each other as they laughed and joked and drank with their friends.

The private area had its own record player and at some point Sabine, Thierry and Marie had decided to start choosing tracks to play and sing along to, performing for the group to great drunken enthusiasm.

“Joe! Nicky!” Thierry called to them, “Are you going to perform for us?!”

“Absolutely not,” Joe grinned, “I don’t sing,” but he was apparently drunk enough to add “Nicky can though.” Nicky turned to him in surprise and Joe cringed at realising that he had just put Nicky on the spot. “But he doesn’t have to…”

“No,” Nicky said loudly, starting to get up, and that, if anything, indicated to Joe that Nicky was also drunk enough to have gained a bucketful of confidence, because Nicky had rarely allowed _Joe_ to hear him sing, let alone anyone else. “No I can. Thierry, are there any Italian records?”

“I think so,” Thierry said, flipping through record collection, “My Aunt is Italian so I imagine my Uncle has at least a few…hey here’s some!”

Nicky actually looked curious and went over to look at the records Thierry was looking through.

“The Italian Stallion is going to sing us a song!” Sabine said gleefully, elbowing Joe playfully, “Is your heart ready for this?”

“No,” Joe said immediately, because just the idea of Nicky singing in Italian and in that outfit had him feeling hot.

“Then our hearts have _no_ hope,” Sara concluded drily from his other side.

The comment made Joe laugh, and distracted him from the fact that Nicky had found the record he wanted and Thierry had put it on. The next thing Joe knew, the whole room was receiving a performance. A brilliant performance. Joe recognised the song because Nicky had the record at home, a song by Anna Oxa from the late 1970s called ‘Un’emozione da poco’, but he had never heard Nicky sing it like this, like his sole concentration was in the song. Joe had never heard Nicky’s voice quite like this either; it was so _manly_ and raspy and Joe was fixed in his seat, helpless to do anything but sit and stare at his boyfriend as he belted out the lyrics with ease. At numerous points in the song Nicky sang just to Joe, eyes fixed on his.

Ten minutes later they were making out in a cubicle of the club toilets.

“Fuck,” Joe groaned, pressing Nicky up against the side of the stall.

“If I knew you liked my singing this much,” Nicky murmured in Italian, as Joe trailed kisses down his jaw, “I would have sung to you much more already.”

“I don’t think my heart could take it,” Joe told him, slotting a thigh between Nicky’s and hearing him moan.

“Joe...” Nicky’s hands were on Joe’s bare ribs, like he couldn’t get enough of the skin revealed by the crop top even though he had seen it hundreds of time before, before sliding them down Joe’s stomach to cup him through his trousers, “Joe,” Nicky’s lips pressed to the shaved hair just in front of Joe’s ear and he whispered “I want you to fuck me so badly.”

Joe nearly lost control just at the sound of Nicky saying it, and also _swearing_ , and he dropped his head to Nicky’s shoulder to try and steady himself.

Though once steadied, Joe also came to his senses a little. “Not here,” Joe begged, “Not here, we shouldn’t be doing this here Nicky, you deserve perfection, not a nightclub toilet.”

All of a sudden Joe was the one with his back to the opposite cubicle wall and Nicky was the one crowding him into it. Nicky looked him straight in the eye, leaned in to nip Joe’s bottom lip with his teeth and said fondly “You, Yusuf al-Kaysani, are a tease.” But he clearly agreed with Joe, because he then moved back, held out his hand and said “Shall we?”

Joe took it, while what Nicky had been asking truly caught up to him, “I promise I will fuck you as much as you like from now on, if you really think you’re ready for us to try it?”

Nicky’s pupils blew a little wider and he crashed them back into the cubicle wall again as he licked into Joe’s mouth. “I’m ready,” Nicky promised, “I am so very ready.”

And just as Joe was thinking that maybe he had been a bit hasty to call a halt to their hot cubicle session, Nicky pulled back, a teasing laugh in his smudged make-upped eyes, and held out his hand.

“You, Nicolò di Genova,” Joe returned, “Are a tease.”

Nicky smirked, took Joe’s hand, and led him back to their friends.

***

30th June 1986  
Sanguinet, France

“Have you heard much from Booker, Andy and Auntie Quynh in the last week?”

Nicky glanced sideways to where Joe was lounging in the passenger seat, denim jacket and sunglasses on, looking every inch like a model, and Nicky had to force himself to look back at the road.

“Not much for almost two weeks now,” Nicky admitted, “The last they said was that the local authorities were starting to get a bit suspicious about who they are. I think the amount they can help on something like this has its limits before people realise that they are fearless, and that they aren’t being affected by radiation like mortal people.”

“Was our last lot of research helpful to them?”

“I think it was, Andy seemed impressed,” Nicky said, “Hopefully they will see that we can be assets to the Old Guard despite being mortal.”

“Hopefully,” Joe agreed.

“You are still interested in joining the Old Guard then?” Nicky said, “Not continuing with art?”

“I have two more years of the course yet,” Joe shrugged, “But even then I doubt it’s going to change my mind.”

“No, me neither. No matter what I end up studying at university.”

***

When Nicky turned the car into the driveway to their home he immediately spotted the three motorbikes parked up outside, and the joy that had filled him all weekend knowing that Joe would be coming home with him for the summer instantly doubled.

“Joe?” Nicky said.

“No way?!” Joe exclaimed, “Is it them? Are they back?!”

Nicky stopped the car immediately and he and Joe leapt out, rushing towards the house. Their arrival must have been seen or heard, because Booker opened the door before they could reach the house and headed out to meet them.

“Booker!” Nicky threw himself into Booker’s arms, hugging him tight and feeling Booker brush a hand back over his hair.

“Hi son,” Booker told him, voice sounding thick with tears.

Nicky pulled back to search Booker’s face. He looked so sad, his eyes haunted, and Nicky did not even dare to imagine what he might have seen in Ukraine because of what had happened at Chernobyl. “Book?” he asked, “Are you ok?”

“I am now,” Booker said, and Nicky hugged him again, so grateful to have him back.

“Yusuf!” a screech behind them made both he and Booker jump, “Yusuf what have you done to your beautiful hair?!”

Booker and Nicky let go of each other to see that Joe had been confronted by Quynh before he could get into the house.

“Auntie Quynh,” Joe complained, “I was very busy with my portfolio and exhibition project so I decided this way I had less upkeep to worry about.”

“It will grow back, Quynh,” Andy teased, stepping forwards to wrap Joe in a hug, and laughing in delight when Joe picked her up and spun her around.

“Not fast enough Andromache,” Quynh said, stepping up when Joe released Andy and taking a hold of his chin in her fingers, pulling his face closer to hers so that she could inspect it and his shaved head. “You will grow back the curls, yes?”

“With pleasure and joy, Auntie,” Joe promised, “Now my school work is done.”

She patted his cheek, “Good boy,” before giving him a hug too.

Nicky was so relieved that he and Joe were back in their guardians’ orbit again. It had been a long two months without them. He watched Joe stride right up to Booker and straight into a hug, burying his face in Booker’s shoulder, as he so often did. Booker’s hand immediately came up to cup the back of Joe’s shaved head, stroking over the short strands.

“You are looking well, Joe,” Booker observed when they finally let each other go, “I like your hair.”

“Well, at least someone likes it,” Joe joked.

“I’m sorry that we missed your exhibition…” Booker was starting to say, but Nicky stopped listening in favour of hugs from Andy and Quynh.

As the Old Guard later explained to Nicky and Joe, when suspicion had been cast upon them for being too involved in such a delicate climate, the Old Guard had lain low for a couple of weeks before making sure they discarded everything potentially touched by radiation and returning home, deciding ultimately to be back for Joe coming home for the summer.

“We just had to get bikes when we had to ditch the car,” Quynh said as their story concluded, “I insisted.”

“In that case,” Joe grinned, leaning back in his chair, “You might enjoy what my main first year exhibition piece was.”

***

3rd January 1987  
Sanguinet, France

Nicky and Joe stayed up to see in Nicky’s 18th birthday together. Together in quite literally every sense.

“Joe,” Nicky whispered reverently, looking up into Joe’s eyes and Joe bit his lip, concentrating hard as he pushed into Nicky’s body as slowly as he could to allow Nicky time to adjust. “Don’t stop, Joe.”

Joe had made sure to carefully work Nicky open with his fingers, as they had done plenty of times since Nicky had begged him to fuck him in the summer. With the Old Guard back home in the summer, and then Joe returning to university for his second year and Nicky studying for his final school examinations, they hadn’t had much chance to be together privately. The time that they had shared alone had been spent keeping to familiar territory, and slowly exploring new pleasures.

This was the first time Joe was going to be inside Nicky. His heart was jack-rabbiting with nerves and the overwhelming sensation of tight heat surrounding him. Nicky’s eyes were wide, and he was palming at Joe’s shoulders, encouraging him to keep moving.

“Are you ok?” Joe asked, “Nicky?”

“I’m good,” Nicky promised, “It’s ok, Joe, please keep going.”

Finally Joe bottomed out and he hung his head to catch his breath. Once he felt in control again, he lowered himself to his elbows and kissed Nicky soundly, before experimentally rolling his hips. They both groaned in unison.

“You feel so _good_ Nicolò,” Joe murmured quietly, “And you look so _good_ under me.” It was true. Even in the dimmed light of their bedroom at midnight, Nicky was a picture of debauched beauty, splayed out on the bed, his skin was flushed and his freshly-cut short hair was wild.

Nicky’s fingers spanned over Joe’s ribs, “Move Joe,” Nicky seemed to beg and order in equal measure, “Move.”

Joe did as Nicky wished. He rolled his hips, picking up the pace and finding a rhythm, the both of them stifling the noises that escaped them by pressing their lips to each other’s skin. Neither of them lasted long; the new sensations and intensity of it overwhelming them both quickly. Their sexual stamina for all other activities had improved a lot in the last year, so Joe was looking forward to when he and Nicky were used to this enough that he could work Nicky up for hours, make love to him for hours.

“What did it feel like?” Joe asked curiously, panting hard on his back with Nicky sprawled over him.

“It felt weird at first, and full, but not in bad way. Then you started moving and it…” Nicky trailed off, searching for the words, “It felt good, and then you hit that spot you usually do with your fingers…”

Joe knew exactly what Nicky meant, because Nicky's fingers had found that little ball of nerves inside Joe too on several occasions. Joe tried to imagine what it was like to have a cock finding that sweet spot instead of just fingers and he shuddered.

“You can find out for yourself next time,” Nicky suggested, fingers trailing over Joe’s chest, looking up at him, “If you want?”

Joe over-exaggeratedly pretended like he was deliberating, but really it required no thought at all. The idea of Nicky working him open and sliding into him as he had just done to Nicky; it was enough to get Joe worked up all over again. “Well I mean,” he shrugged playfully, “It seems only fair.”

The joke was worth Nicky’s grin, eyes sparkling in the dim light with a mixture of mirth and heated promise of what next time might be like, as he leaned up to kiss Joe.

“Happy Birthday Nicolò,” Joe said.

***

27th June 1987  
Bordeaux, France

Spring passed by into summer quickly; Joe had spent most of it up to his eyeballs in university work and Nicky had had his final school exams to focus on. Joe had missed Nicky, Booker, Andy and Quynh with only being able to go home on a rare weekend, but he had ultimately enjoyed his second year of university. He had been receiving great feedback from his art tutors, and had been enjoying spending time with his friends; going out to the park, or to the cinema, or to parties. He had opted to move out of student accommodation after his first year and had been living in a student house with Sara, Sabine and Thierry. Marie and Alain had coupled up during their first year, so had found their own place not too far away.

Joe had been kept so busy that the end of his second university year had seemed to come around in no time at all.

He was walking with Sara back to their house when a motorbike passed them by, slowing to a stop further down the street.

Sara whistled lowly, “Who is _that_?”

Joe could not help but laugh, “That’s my Dad.”

Sara turned to stare at him, “You are _joking_.”

“Not joking,” Joe grinned.

“Sabine is going to be furious when she learns you’ve been keeping your hot Dad a secret from us!”

Joe could not deny that Booker did look very cool with his leather jacket, sunglasses, tanned skin and sun-bleached blond hair; the way he sat on the bike with ease. Another couple of bikes soon appeared, pulling up beside Booker’s. Quynh was on one of them, and on the other was Andy, with Nicky sitting behind her, all of them looking effortlessly beautiful, like a band of action heroes.

“Is that?” Sara adjusted her glasses, “Is that Nicky on the back of that bike?”

“Yes,” Joe said, “That’s his Mum Andrea in front of him.”

“For the love of all things sexy,” Sara exclaimed, “Since when has there been a cool parents club and why did my parents never get the memo?”

Joe threw his head back and laughed. As they reached his family Joe called out “To what do I owe this absolute pleasure?”

“Nicky’s finished his last exam, so we’ve come to see your exhibition,” Booker said, “And take you both out for lunch to celebrate.”

Joe could not contain his happiness and excitement at having been surprised, and turned to Sara, “I’ll see you later?”

“Sure,” Sara said, smiling back at him, before leaning around him to wave at Nicky, who waved back. “I’m just going to go and gossip about this with Sabine.”

Joe grinned, winked, and walked up to Booker’s bike, swinging his leg over it to sit behind him, and as the Old Guard’s bikes all revved up to move, Joe could not help but feel a little smug, and a whole lot grateful, that he had been blessed with these people as his second family.

***

One of Joe’s main subjects of study for his second year had been portraiture. Although Booker, Andy and Quynh had loved his first year exhibition piece (when it had been returned to Joe the Old Guard had put it up on display in the house at Sanguinet) he knew that they would not appreciate having their faces on display, even at a small university exhibition. So he had done some smaller portraits of Nicky for coursework, and his friends, and what he remembered of his real father and family, but he had kept the subject of his main piece a secret.

It was worth it, to see Andy and Quynh’s faces the moment that they saw it. “That’s…” Andy said, trailing off.

“That’s Lykon,” Quynh finished for her, delighted.

“How did you…” Andy looked at Joe and then to Quynh.

Quynh was beaming at Joe, “Oh I remember! Years ago Yusuf asked me what Lykon looked like and I described him until Joe had drawn his face. But I had no idea about _this_ …this is another level of detail! Yusuf, this is without doubt the best portrait you have ever done.”

She sounded so proud Joe tears actually filled his eyes, “Thank you Auntie Quynh.”

“Joe,” Andy’s eyes were shining too, “It looks just like him.”

Booker was staring at Lykon's portrait, having never met his fallen immortal brother, taking in Lykon’s face for the first time. Nicky moved to stand right beside Joe, their shoulders and arms pressed together, fingers tangling. 

“We dreamed of that face for so long until we found him,” Andy said, reminiscing over a thousand years ago, “I believed I would never see it again."

“Well I thought it could be a gift for you,” Joe said, “Like last years’ piece was.”

“I cannot tell you how much this means,” Andy said, reaching out to take Joe’s other hand, “Of all the art pieces in the world…” she trailed off.

“And that’s coming from the woman with original artworks from across planet and time,” Quynh commented, “She has an original Rodin and even that didn’t make her speechless.”

“Because this is personal,” Andy said, not taking her eyes from Lykon’s face, “This is family.”

Nicky’s hand squeezed Joe’s, and Joe glanced at him to see Nicky watching him back, and he wasn’t sure he had ever seen Nicky look so in love with him as he did in that moment.

“Speaking of gifts for the family,” Booker said, moving in too to squeeze Joe’s shoulder in silent but clear thanks and pride, “I have something to give you both when we are at lunch.”

***

Joe took them to one of his favourite places to eat out with his friends, and over good food and glasses of wine, Booker revealed what his gift was.

“With Nicky turning eighteen at the start of this year,” he started, “And Joe going to turn twenty-one at the end of it, I wanted to get you both something. Since they are ‘milestone’ birthdays, I wanted to get you something special.”

“Milestones for us maybe,” Joe joked, “Not for you.”

“Twenty one years, twenty one thousand years…” Quynh waved it aside with a teasing grin, “Who’s counting?”

Booker rolled his eyes. “I figured summer would be the best time to give you this.” He placed something on the table between Joe and Nicky. When he moved his hand, they saw a key. “This key is for a property I bought in Malta some time ago,” Booker said, “I want you two to have it. Make it holiday home, make it a permanent home when you are finished with university, hell, sell it if you fancy a house in a different country and want to use the money. It’s yours to do with as you wish.”

“Book…” Joe said, astounded once again by the generosity and heart of the man that raised them.

“Booker,” Nicky helped Joe's sudden speechlessness along, reaching out to clasp Booker’s hand, “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

Joe moved out of his seat to wrap his arm around Booker’s neck and kiss him on the cheek. “Thank you,” Joe said, “Thank you for everything.”

***

3rd July 1987  
Marsascala, Malta

Nicky and Joe had managed to book last minute flights out to Malta, so six days after they had been given the key by Booker, they were unlocking the front door to the house. It was a traditional, quiet house, simply furnished and absolutely beautiful, only a short walk from St Thomas Bay.

Nicky and Joe planned to only stay two weeks, wanting to spend as much of their summer as they could with Booker, Andy and Quynh before both of them left to attend university at the end of August. Nicky was looking forward to starting his first year at Bordeaux, where he had enrolled for Religious Studies, but he was also going to miss living in Sanguinet. He had spent two years as the only child still left at home, which had meant he had enjoyed spending a lot of time with each of his guardians. He was going to miss sitting reading or watching the football with Booker, practicing long range shooting and horse riding with Andy, and sword fighting and cooking with Quynh. He knew that the Old Guard would miss his presence just as they missed Joe while he was at university. He knew it was going to be especially hard on Booker having the both of them away at university.

He and Joe planned to make the most of the weeks they had with the Old Guard as soon as they got back, but for the time being, for two weeks, Nicky was going to focus on making the most of having Joe all to himself.

Nicky had been a little concerned about whether Joe would be comfortable being in a country that was so close to Tunisia and Italy and the place where Joe’s family had drowned. Booker had expressed his concerns about that too. Not long after gifting them the key he had started to tell Joe that he had originally thought of the house in Malta because it was between Joe and Nicky’s birth countries, but if Joe was at all uncomfortable with the thought then Booker would give them the keys to a different property, unless they decided to sell the house in Malta. Joe had stalled Booker’s worries by simply thanking him for giving him the chance to make happier memories in that part of the world.

Completely oblivious to Nicky’s thoughts, Joe proved his absolute courage and will to face his fears by exclaiming to Nicky “Did you see the _beach_?” as they looked around the house and out of each window to see the views, “And the sea? Finally I have found a colour that is almost as beautiful a match as your eyes, Nicolò!”

“You have such a way with words Joe.”

“What can I say?” Joe said, carrying his bag upstairs to find the bedroom, “I’m a romantic.”

“An incurable one,” Nicky teased as he followed him up the stairs.

“And now who has a way with words?” Joe teased, putting his bag on the bedroom floor and spinning to face Nicky with a grin. He looked radiant. His hair was in its natural curl, his face shaded with stubble, and in his shorts and sandals and loose linen shirt, he looked the very picture of summer.

“But then,” Joe said, eyebrow quirking, “I have always found you more a man of action.”

Nicky rose to the low hanging bait, because there was absolutely no reason not to, and that felt freeing. For the first time he had Joe completely alone, without anyone - Old Guard or flatmates - in the next room. He crossed the floor in a matter of three strides to press himself up along Joe’s body and kiss him.

Joe’s arms went automatically to Nicky’s shoulders, his hand finding the back of Nicky's neck to comb through the soft hairs at the nape of Nicky’s neck. After two years of Nicky continuing with almost double the amount of sport and exercise than Joe had time for, Joe had remained toned yet slender, while Nicky’s shoulders had grown broader and stronger. What Nicky’s growth spurt hadn’t gifted Nicky in the 3cm he lacked on Joe, his broadness certainly made up for it.

Nicky’s hands had fallen to Joe’s hips, his thumbs moving back and forth over the jut of Joe’s hip bones. As they continued kissing he dropped his hands lower, and finally grasped the back of Joe’s thighs, hoisting him up.

Joe made a noise of pleasant surprise, wrapping his legs around Nicky’s waist and holding on around Nicky’s shoulders a little more securely. “Now this is new,” Joe commented, “And while I should be furious that you are strong enough and I am light enough for you to pick me up, I would absolutely be lying if I said this wasn’t very, very hot.”

Nicky grinned up at him, and Joe leaned down to kiss him as Nicky carried him over to the bed. Nicky considered dropping Joe down on the bed, already imagining Joe’s liking to Nicky throwing him around like that, but he decided instead on lowering Joe and himself to the bed slowly, catching himself on one arm as he positioned Joe beneath him. He took a moment, holding himself up over Joe as he slowly undid Joe’s shirt, button by button, and when skin was revealed, soothing a hand down Joe's side, his gaze following the path of his palm across flawless skin.

“Nicolò?” Joe asked, voice soft.

Nicky looked back up to Joe’s face, taking in his open, loving expression, his brown eyes soft and trusting, his lips a little swollen from kissing. It suddenly struck Nicky how amazing Joe had always been with him, in waiting for Nicky to be old enough to date, in being patient with new intimacy and figuring out what worked for them and what didn’t. Nicky had been experiencing things at seventeen and eighteen that Joe hadn’t been able to, and yet Joe had been willing to wait to share his firsts with Nicky even if it meant being older when first experiencing them.

“You amaze me Joe,” Nicky confessed, “Every day.”

Joe smiled in that fond way he always did when Nicky complimented him and Nicky traced the dimple in his cheek, and for a moment everything was quiet, and then suddenly everything turned frantic. They were wrestling off each other’s clothes, laughing and kissing until they were both sprawled out naked on the bed. Nicky had retrieved a tub of lube from the nearest bag to the bed and Joe was lying beneath him again, hands resting above his head, pliant, waiting for Nicky to take the lead.

“What do you need, Joe?” Nicky asked.

“You,” Joe replied, watching him as Nicky coated his fingers with lube and lay between his legs, Joe spreading them to accommodate him. Nicky kissed the inside of Joe’s thigh, and then the inside of the other one, before moving to take the head of Joe’s cock into his mouth, watching from beneath his eyelashes as Joe's mouth dropped open with a moan he didn’t need to stifle because there was no-one there to overhear them.

Hearing Joe louder than he was used to had Nicky sucking a little harder, coated fingers moving downward as he did so. He teased Joe's entrance for a while, massaging, relaxing, but did not breach him until he knew Joe was ready for him to.

“What do you want _,_ Joe?” Nicky pressed, before pressing a kiss to Joe’s stomach.

Joe’s eyes were still fixed on him, “You,” Joe said again.

So Nicky gave Joe what he wanted.

When Joe had been opened up on Nicky’s fingers to the point that his thighs were trembling and he was begging Nicky, telling him that he was ready for him, Nicky moved up Joe’s body, kissing his way up to Joe’s mouth, and Joe’s hands immediately moved to hold Nicky’s head in place.

“Fuck I love you Nicolò,” Joe said, finally finding his words. For someone so eloquent most of the time, Joe talked a lot less in the bedroom whenever Nicky was leading them. It was like all the words got lost and it was incredibly endearing. 

“I love you too, Yusuf,” Nicky told him, “How do you want me?”

Joe turning over was enough of an answer for Nicky. He kissed Joe’s shoulder in agreement, lowering himself down to press up along Joe’s back. He liked it this way, the angle meant that more skin could be pressed against skin; it allowed them to be more intimately close. Nicky pressed into Joe slowly, arms bracketed around Joe’s head, Joe holding his hands. Nicky started to move his hips slowly, unhurriedly, because there was something nice in knowing that for two weeks they had all the time in the world for this. He could hear each and every sound he and Joe made, every moan, every grunt, every hitch of breath. He knew Joe felt it too; how everything felt sweet and sticky, slow and smooth. It was less of a tip over the edge in the end as a slow crest of a wave, Nicky moaning into Joe’s neck and Joe’s face pressed into the pillow, praising Nicky’s name.

Nicky grasped a hand into Joe’s hair, because Joe liked when he did that, to turn Joe’s head to kiss him over his shoulder. He then pulled out and collapsed boneless onto the bed beside him.

“Wow,” Joe said, hand already moving to tangle with Nicky’s once more.

“You have such a way with words Joe,” Nicky teased, easily picking up their earlier banter.

“What can I say?” Joe said, turning his head to grin at him, “I’m a romantic.”

Nicky laughed, and saw how Joe’s eyes lit up just watching Nicky laugh. Nicky turned his head further to give Joe another kiss, “An incurable one,” Nicky murmured in agreement.

***

17th July 1987  
Marsascala, Malta

When Booker had first gifted them the Malta house, Joe had been so blindsided, excited and grateful for the gesture that he hadn’t considered how close to home it was until later. Booker and Nicky had both reminded Joe that if he did not want to be on an island in the middle of the ocean his family had drowned in, then there was no pressure on him to go. Joe admittedly had been feeling a mixture of emotions when he and Nicky had first boarded the plane; excitement and anticipation of spending two weeks alone with Nicky, but also the apprehension of potentially having flashbacks or old fears resurface once more.

But by now, on the day that they were due to fly home again, Joe did not want to leave. He wanted to see Booker, Andy and Quynh, of course, but he and Nicky had had such a wonderful time that Joe was already looking forward to whenever they might be able to return next.

“It is ours now, remember,” Nicky reminded him as they packed their bags, “We can come here whenever we want.”

That was something that had still not quite sunken in for Joe; that he now owned a house that he could come back to whenever he wished. It seemed almost too good to be true. Like how so many things since meeting Booker in Nice had felt too good to be true, but had just turned out to be _good._ So very happy and good.

Joe and Nicky had spent two weeks making wonderful memories. They had spent days on the beach and in the sea, they had walked the coastal paths and visited historic sites, they had spent time in the town talking to the locals and shopping, they had found a spot to sit with their books, all while also finding _plenty_ of time to spend in the bedroom. One of the days they hadn’t even left their bed but for food and water and to use the bathroom. Joe was not going to forget _that_ day in Malta in a hurry. He and Nicky had somehow become more intimate, more flexible, and more understanding of each other’s bodies and kinks in that one day than they had ever thought possible.

Yes, Malta was definitely going in Joe’s list of happy places, right beneath their home in Sanguinet.

“We’ll come back soon,” Joe said, and smiled when Nicky leaned in to kiss his cheek. The sun had lightened strands of Nicky’s short hair, and Joe could have sworn Nicky’s eyes had taken in even more colour from the sea.

Joe lifted Nicky's hand to his lips to kiss the back of it, as Nicky promised him “Very soon.”

***

29th August 1987  
Bordeaux, France

“How is it that I have lived for thousands of years and yet somehow Nicolò being old enough for university is what is making me feel old?” Quynh teased, pulling Nicky into a fierce hug. “You’ll do wonderfully here, my little Italian.”

Nicky was finally beginning to understand how Joe had felt the first day they had dropped him off at university. Despite knowing Booker, Andy and Quynh were only an hours’ drive away, Nicky still felt sad, and that was even with knowing that Joe would be there with him in Bordeaux for the year. Joe hadn’t even had that when he had first started university.

Joe was returning to live in the house he had shared the previous year with Sara, Sabine and Thierry for his third and final year of his art course. Nicky was moving into the student accommodation for his first year of Religious Studies. He was excited to learn, and hoping to make friends as kind, funny and loyal as the ones Joe had made. He was also looking forward to being able to spend more time with Joe in the city.

There was a lot to look forward to, but not living permanently with Booker, Andy and Quynh for three years was not one of them.

“Take care of yourself,” Andy ordered fondly, encompassing him in a hug, “And if they have an archery or rifle team, join it.”

“Yes _Mum_ ,” Nicky teased, causing Andy to roll her eyes and playfully ruffle his hair.

Nicky turned to Booker, trying not to get too upset. He had seen how Booker had cried driving away from leaving Joe at university for the first time, and he imagined that Booker was going to be just as bad with dropping Nicky off too, and neither of them being at home anymore.

“Booker?” Nicky asked, “Are you ok?”

Booker sent him a wobbly sort of smile and hugged him tightly and for a long time. “I’m fine, Nicolò,” he said into Nicky’s ear, “I’m fine. I just didn’t expect you boys to grow up quite so fast.”

“Well you’re not getting rid of us _that_ easily,” Joe commented from where he was sitting at Nicky’s new desk.

“Good,” Booker said, finally letting Nicky go, “I am glad to hear it.”

***

2nd July 1988  
Bordeaux, France

When ten months ago Joe had said to Booker that the Old Guard wasn’t getting rid of him and Nicky that easily, and Booker had said he was glad to hear it, Booker apparently hadn’t been on the same wavelength as Joe as to what that had meant.

Joe had finished his third and final year of university. His three final exhibited artworks had been a devoted landscape piece of Malta, another landscape piece of Sanguinet, and finally a double portrait inspired by Nicky’s university textbooks, of two men that held uncanny resemblance to he and Nicky. Behind their heads were a sun and a moon. Nicky’s moon was adorned with Christian scripture, and Joe’s sun was depicted with Islamic scripture.

After seeing the exhibition, Joe, Nicky and the Old Guard had gone out to dinner to celebrate the end of Joe’s final year and upcoming graduation, and Nicky finishing his first year with flying colours.

“So Joe,” Booker asked conversationally, “Have you thought about what are you planning to do now that you have finished university?”

“I have given it a lot of thought,” Joe said, glancing at Nicky, who nodded at him in support, “And I know what I want to do.”

“And what's that?”

“I would like to join the Old Guard.”

The Old Guard all stopped. They stared. They realised Joe wasn’t joking. They realised he really wasn’t planning to pursue his art, or get a civilian job. And that was about the time that all hell broke loose.


	9. 1989 - 1993

4th February 1989  
Sanguinet, France

“What is it they say, Basti? 'If you pull that face any longer then the wind might change and it will stay that way'. And for you it will stay like that for a _long_ time. So consider putting away the frown, would you?”

Booker looked up at Quynh with what she assumed was an attempt at a smile, “Very funny.”

Quynh rolled her eyes fondly and sat herself down next to him on the step of the open patio doors to look out over the garden.

“I know you are worried about Yusuf, Basti, but the solution Andromache has come to is the best for all parties concerned, wouldn’t you agree?”

There had been a lot of arguments over Yusuf’s hope to join the Old Guard after leaving university. Andromache had been genuinely surprised by the revelation, Basti had been steadfastly against it, and even Quynh had been opposed to it, at first. Nicolò had been on Yusuf’s side, with a surety that made Quynh suspicious that Nicolò was planning the exact same thing for when he finished university next July.

Initially Quynh’s response had been as strict a ‘no’ to the idea as Basti's, because she was, of course, concerned for Yusuf. Their work was often dangerous, and if she, Andromache or Basti were killed on the job, they 99.999% of the time would be getting up again. Yusuf would not. It was one of the reasons why Quynh had been so adamant in not wanting to get too involved in the adoption of Yusuf and Nicolò in the first place. She and Andromache had raised mortal children before, and each of their deaths, whether on good terms or bad, had wounded her more than any physical injury ever could. She had vowed never again. It had not taken long for Quynh to spend enough time with Nicolò and Yusuf to change her mind, and their ten years with the boys had been as delightful as any the Old Guard had known, but it did not mean that Quynh was concerned any less by their mortality.

But in those ten years she had _also_ always been a supporter of asking Nicolò and Yusuf what _they_ wanted, rather than making decisions that she thought were best for them; even as far back as when she still hadn’t been in agreement with adopting them, but had suggested asking them whether they had wanted to be falsely registered as half-brothers or friends. Yusuf and Nicolò were sensible boys with sensible heads on their shoulders, and yes, while it was because they had been forced to grow up too quickly from childhood trauma, it meant that they were well aware of their own mortality and mindful of how the Old Guard felt about it. Yusuf would not have asked to join the Old Guard without giving it plenty of consideration and forethought. And if she were being honest, Yusuf’s wishes were not exactly unreasonable.

He had made it clear that he did not expect to a part of any action, but was happily prepared to take on the role of the Guard’s researcher. Just as he and Nicolò had unofficially helped to do for previous missions in the past, such as Nicolò had done for the Old Guard while they had been in Ukraine.

Andromache clearly thought Yusuf’s request was reasonable too, and was aware of how useful Yusuf and Nicolò had been for the team in the past, because she had eventually made the final deciding compromise; Yusuf could join the Old Guard as researcher, administrator and assistant for a trial period, but would only accompany the Old Guard on their missions when needed and would otherwise stay at home. If he joined them on a mission he had to stay within the safety of the Old Guard’s safe house or base of operations. And in the time they had between missions, Yusuf should pursue some kind of civilian employment as well. As far as Quynh was concerned, it had been the most logical solution to keep everybody happy.

Yusuf had immediately agreed, and had continued to pursue freelance artistry outside of his research for the Old Guard. In his free time in the seven months since finishing university Yusuf had been keeping fit, rebuilding his strength, technique and skills in sword and gunmanship. He had learned to drive. He had spent time with Basti, learning about the latest technologies and research practices. The Old Guard had done all of this with him, and Nicolò too whenever Nicolò was home for the holidays or a weekend, because although they were not totally happy with Yusuf joining the Old Guard - and were maybe still holding out a little hope that Yusuf would decide in the trial period that this life wasn’t actually for him - they were still not going to let him enter their world, or any world at all, unprepared.

They had only had one mission so far since agreeing that Yusuf could join them in trial. It had been in November of the previous year, and Yusuf had not been required to accompany them, and had stayed in Sanguinet to be their researcher and assistance. He had undoubtedly been a huge asset to them. Even Basti had been unable to deny it, even if he hadn't been loud about it. But now had come the biggest test the Old Guard would have to face in accepting their adopted son as their new mortal member; a mission which required Yusuf to come with them.

“I would feel safer in knowing he wasn’t coming with us,” Basti said to her, glumly watching two crows squabble near the treeline.

“He’s 22 now, Basti,” Quynh reminded him, “He is an adult. He has made his choices and so has Andromache. He proved his worth as a researcher for us last year, and we will ensure that he stays in the safe house while we work, just like we did when he and Nicolò had to come with us to St Albans all those years ago. He is well aware of the kind of dangers we face on missions. The first month he met us he saw us gunned down in the doorway, remember? I doubt he has forgotten it.”

“I’m just worried, Quynh,” Basti said, twisting his hands.

“I won’t let you down, Book.”

Yusuf’s voice had Quynh and Basti twisting to look at Yusuf, who was standing behind them in the living room, looking determined, but emotionally so.

Basti was on his feet immediately and crossed the room to Yusuf in a couple of long strides to clasp his shoulders and look him in the eye. “You could never _ever_ let me down, Joe. I am just worried for your safety. You know that.”

There had been enough emotion-fuelled, passionate and tearful arguments between Yusuf and Basti over all of this that they both knew exactly how the other felt about the situation.

Yusuf wanted to join the Old Guard because he wanted to help them help people. He wanted to stay close to his family. Basti didn’t want Yusuf to join the Old Guard because he was terrified of losing him. That was all it boiled down to, in the end.

“You won’t regret letting me join you,” Yusuf told Basti and Quynh, his gaze imploring as it flicked between them, “I promise I’ll do everything I can to help.”

Basti did not reply but automatically pulled Yusuf into a tight hug, a hug that gave off a myriad of emotion; his love, his pride, his fear, his grief, his need to protect, his pain at making Yusuf feel like Basti doubted his abilities or was rejecting his wish to help.

It had been a tough seven months of tension and sporadic arguments, and although Quynh still harboured her concerns at what might happen when Yusuf joined them on their mission officially for the first time, she had come around to at least letting him try. And she knew Basti was trying to reach her level of acceptance also, but Quynh figured Basti still needed time to adjust to that point. He would need evidence of how Yusuf worked and remained safe on their upcoming mission to help him get there.

Quynh left the boys to their hug and retreated to the kitchen where Andromache was sitting, and had clearly been listening to what was going on.

“Have I made the right decision?” Andromache sighed, looking to Quynh for support.

Quynh smiled at her love, reaching out to twirl a piece of Andromache’s hair with her finger, “We won’t know until we let Yusuf try. I have a strong feeling he is going to be an asset to us, and work with us seamlessly. Nicolò too, when he joins us…well, it’s inevitable isn’t it?” she added, when Andromache raised an eyebrow at her, “Where one goes, the other follows. Not so dissimilar to two other people I know.”

Andromache smirked at her, hands manoeuvring Quynh until Quynh was straddling her lap. Quynh kissed her firmly, arms wrapped around Andromache’s neck.

“I’d follow you to the ends of the Earth, Quynh,” Andromache promised.

“Or the bottom of the ocean,” Quynh shrugged, aiming for light-hearted, but when Andromache flinched, Quynh carded her hands into Andromache’s hair, tugging gently, “You have proved all of that and more, Andromache, because we love each other, and fight for each other, and protect each other always. The same goes for our family, for Basti, for Yusuf, for Nicolò.”

Andromache leaned forward to press her lips to Quynh’s bare collarbone, holding her close and breathing her in. “I made the right decision,” Andromache said, with much more confidence.

“I think you have. I have trusted your judgement and your leadership for millennia, Andromache. I’d follow you anywhere. You know this.” Quynh lowered her head to murmur in Andromache’s ear, “I'd even follow you to the bedroom right now, if you were at all interested.”

Andromache’s fingers flexed on Quynh’s hips, and slid to Quynh’s thighs, a moment before she stood up, lifting Quynh as she did. Quynh laughed in delight before slipping out of Andromache’s hold, kissed her again, and took her hand - a hand that had slain thousands of times, but had loved a thousand times more - before leading her to their room.

***

25th February 1989  
Sanguinet, France

Three weeks later the Old Guard returned to Sanguinet triumphant.

Andy was pleased with how smoothly the operation had gone. She had had her concerns prior to going, not for how Joe would function in the team because she knew he would be faultless at that, but for his safety. She shouldn’t have worried. The safe house was far enough away from the combat that Joe had remained perfectly safe, and he had even had dinner waiting for them when they returned home. During their mission, when the Old Guard had been in action and had contacted Joe for assistance, Andy had made sure to treat him as she would treat Booker and Quynh on a mission. Because they were not just a family, but a unit, and she needed to know that Joe could tell the difference and operate as a functional piece of the team as well as a beloved member of their family. Again, her concerns were not needed. Joe followed every order to the letter and was genuinely an asset.

One evening when they had returned worn and dirty to base and Joe had dinner keeping warm in the oven for when they were cleaned up, Quynh had announced, “Now this, this I could get used to,” with a wink at Joe, who had looked mightily pleased at the praise.

Even Booker, who had remained worried throughout the mission, had to admit by the end of it that Joe had fitted in seamlessly to the Old Guard as a team as well as he had to the Old Guard as a family.

Andy had been witness to the moment that Booker had finally, truly accepted that Joe’s place in the team could work, despite his mortality. Joe had been helping to pack the vehicles for the journey home, and Booker had snagged his arm to pull him to a stop.

“I’m proud of you,” Booker had told him, gaze steady on Joe’s.

Joe’s eyes had lit up, “I hope I’ve proved myself…”

Booker had shaken his head to stop him and Joe had winced, assuming Booker was saying he hadn’t proved himself, but Booker had been quick to explain, “You had nothing to prove. I never doubted your skills, Joe, or if you would work within the team. I was worried for your safety. We lead a dangerous life. So if anything needed proving, it was that I needed to prove to myself that we could make this work. These weeks have shown me that there are ways that you can be a part of missions with the team without being involved in the more dangerous side of it and I…I am glad you were here. It has been good to see your face and hear your jokes and your laughter after a hard day out there. You have been a bright presence to come home to. So, thank you, for being a part of the team.”

Joe had been teary-eyed by the time he threw his arms around Booker’s neck to hug him.

Booker's words had spoken for all of them, because Andy felt the same and she knew Quynh did too. Joe was a warm, joyful presence to have around after a hard day, just as Nicky had been a calming, supportive presence on the other end of the phone when the Old Guard had been in Ukraine.

As the Old Guard dropped their bags at Sanguinet and immediately began discussing taking the bikes for a ride to Bordeaux to see Nicky after three weeks without him, Andy knew that Quynh had been right before they had left. Where either Nicky or Joe went, the other would follow, and Andy had known for a while that Nicky planned to join the Old Guard just as Joe did. Andy’s worry about _that,_ though (after having spent many, many hours of training Nicky in long-range shooting) was the question of how long Joe and Nicky were going to be able to sit back from the action.

***

21st July 1990  
Marsascala, Malta

“Here’s to you, Nicolò,” Joe said.

Nicky looked away from the sunset to where Joe was holding up a glass of wine toward him. Nicky lifted his glass. “This is very grown up of us, Joe.”

“I know. Humour me?” Joe grinned, “Here’s to you,” he said, “For graduating as the highest achieving Religious Studies student of your class.”

Nicky felt his ears heating up, but clinked his glass against Joe’s own. “And here’s to you for completing your first year as an official member of the Old Guard.”

“And here’s to you starting yours,” Joe added, getting in the last word and praise with a pleased quirk of his mouth as he sipped his wine.

“You’ve paved the way and proved yourself for the both of us this year, Joe, with Booker, Andy and Auntie Quynh,” Nicky said, after sipping from his own glass and putting it back down on the table. He turned to lean back on the railing of the balcony; turning away from the sunset so that he could look at his own personal sunshine, “I’m grateful.”

It had been a heady summer month so far for Nicky. Finishing his final exams and partying with his friends and his housemates Josephine and Camille, and finding out he was graduating with top marks had been a joy for him. Celebrating his results with Joe, Booker, Andy and Quynh - his family - had been more than an eight year old orphan could ever have dreamed. During that time Nicky had expressed his wishes to also join the Old Guard, but had reassured that he would work as a freelance educational tutor in his time between missions, just as Joe had continued with his freelance art. Nicky had been officially accepted as one of the Old Guard for whenever they next went on a suitable mission; suitable meaning that Joe had still not been permitted to accompany on all missions, just the ones in which Joe’s safety could be guaranteed by a secure base away from the action. Anything that required the Old Guard to be nomadic and sleep rough, Joe had to stay in Sanguinet and aid them from home. The same rule would apply to Nicky. Nicky had readily accepted.

Nicky and Joe had then travelled to their gifted home in Malta for a month over the summer, and they were only one week in. After a week of sun, sea, wine, pastizzi, kapunata, books, music and Joe, Nicky had never felt so happy or at peace. And they still had three weeks left.

As Nicky came back from his thoughts, he saw Joe watching him, his head cocked curiously. 

“Where did you go?” Joe asked softly, placing his wine glass down on the table next to Nicky’s.

“Nowhere without you,” Nicky promised, and as Joe smiled and sauntered over, Nicky reached out to pull Joe in by the waistband of his shorts at the same time Joe took hold of the balcony rails, bracketing Nicky in his arms.

Joe leaned in to kiss him, tasting of red wine and olives and the last of the day’s sunshine, which was reflected in the warm brown of Joe’s eyes as he leaned back to smile at him.

“I wish I had my paints,” Joe confessed, “You and the sunset behind you make quite the picture, Nicolò,” he leaned in to kiss Nicky’s jaw, and Nicky felt the familiar brush against his cheek of Joe's curls, which were escaping from underneath Joe's favourite baseball cap. “And the moon already visible, it’s almost in line with your eyes,” Joe pressed a kiss to the corner of Nicky’s eye, “It’s like it knows it’s losing the competition for my attention to your eyes and it’s jealous.”

“You are incurable,” Nicky growled playfully, nudging Joe back, “You are comparing my eyes to the beauty of the moon?”

“Not comparing,” Joe announced, going where Nicky guided him, until Joe was sitting in one of the balcony chairs, looking up at Nicky with open adoration, “There is no comparison. The moon orbits the Earth. If anything I am a moon, trapped most willingly in your orbit.”

Nicky took a moment to take in the sight of Joe - his beautiful face, curved dimples, dark curls, long legs and broad shoulders - before sliding gracefully down into Joe’s lap, rolling his hips as he leaned forward to take Joe’s cap from his head, and put it on his own head, facing it backwards over his short hair. He smirked at how Joe’s eyes darkened at the sight of it.

“You are far too young to be such a hopeless romantic, my love,” Nicky commented fondly, holding the back of the chair to better roll his hips against Joe’s, “At 23 you should not be creating such beautiful improvised poetry, Yusuf, all the poets of the world would be jealous.”

Nicky’s hips ground down into Joe’s and Joe’s eyes never left Nicky’s as his lips parted around a gasp. Nicky wished he had the same mastering of words as Joe, so that he could describe quite how enchanting Joe was.

“And at 21 you should be old enough to know not to tease me so, Nicolò,” Joe teased.

“At 21,” Nicky amended, moving one of his hands to splay it over Joe’s chest, over his heart, “I have barely begun with you, Joe.”

Joe groaned and cupped the back of Nicky’s capped head to draw him down for a kiss. “That sounds promising,” Joe murmured against his lips.

***

22nd October 1991  
Uttarkashi, India

The Old Guard had been in New Dehli when news reached them on the 20th October of the Utterkashi earthquake. The Old Guard had prepared to leave to help with the relief effort, as thousands of homes had been destroyed and damaged, and hundreds of people killed or injured. Nicky and Joe had begged to come and help, rather than head home while Andy, Quynh and Booker went on to Uttarkashi. Andy decided to allow them to join them.

“It was almost like they were made for this, weren’t they?” Quynh said, coming to stand beside Andy and taking a swig from a water bottle, watching as Booker, Joe and Nicky helped hand out supplies to people who had lost their homes. “Helping people, being a part of our work?”

Andy watched Nicky crouch down to talk to two children, as Joe helped to hand out materials for temporary shelters.

“Yes,” Andy agreed, “They are good at this.”

And that was how Joe and Nicky started to become more involved with the Old Guard’s relief missions.

***

16 March 1992  
Frankfurt, Germany

“It’s going to take all three of us,” Andy said, “We need two of us on the ground,” she indicated where, on the map spread out on the table, “And one of us to provide covering fire from up here,” she pointed.

“I’ll do it,” Quynh offered, “But I’d prefer to cover from here,” she tapped her finger on a different point, “It’s closer to the action, in case you need physical back up.”

“But that would create a blind spot here…” Andy circled the spot in question.

“We can’t underestimate these guys,” Booker warned, “Not from all the intel we have on them.”

“Well, that can be solved easily,” Nicky said.

The Old Guard turned to look at him, and Joe, who was standing just behind him. Nicky glanced back at Joe too, who was leaning back against the counter of the hotel room kitchenette. Joe gestured for him to continue; automatically offering his support before hearing what Nicky even had to say. Joe always had his back. And Nicky loved him for it.

Nicky turned back and remained steadfast under being the room’s focus of attention. He stepped forward and pointed at the map, where Andy had originally indicated, “I can provide extra cover from where Andy first suggested, if you need someone with a scope of the blind spot," and then, before any of them could protest quickly added, “Quynh can provide the main cover and I would be the very last line of defence. You know I’m good enough with a rifle and a set of sights, Andy. And I’d be far enough from the action to be safe. Joe can be my spotter for additional eyes on the ground. We can be extra lookouts and warn you of anything we see that might pose a danger from the outside, so Quynh can focus on protecting the two of you in the centre.”

Nicky looked back at Joe to gage his reaction, but Joe just shrugged and agreed “You said yourselves it’s going to take all three of you; so why not use the two of us to your additional advantage?”

Nicky anticipated an immediate ‘no’ from Booker, but Andy looked ready to agree, and they could all see it. After one look at Andy’s face and realising that she was going to permit Nicky’s suggestion, Booker turned on them with an authoritative point of the finger. “You will stay in position, up high and away from the site, you will provide observation _only_ and you will fire that rifle _only_ in the _direst_ of emergencies. Do you understand me?”

Joe moved forward to stand shoulder to shoulder with Nicky, hands raised in defence, “Like Nicky said,” Joe said, “We would be the very, very last line of defence.”

Andy nodded, “That’s settled then.”

***

As far as Andy was concerned, Nicky and Joe performed their roles perfectly. They radioed only once, to inform the Old Guard of two men entering Quynh’s blind spot, and Andy had been glad to have had the forewarning. If Nicky and Joe hadn’t been there the Old Guard would have been caught by surprise.

And that was how Joe and Nicky started to become more involved as lookouts during the Old Guard’s missions.

***

29th September 1992  
Boston, Massachusetts, USA

Most of the time, Joe was glad that the Old Guard had come to trust him and Nicky to act as their extra – or sole – lookouts during missions. He was glad for their trust and to be able to help them further in the good work they did.

He and Nicky made a good team. They worked together seamlessly, wordlessly, passing equipment to one another in silence. Joe had a keen focus, so used his binoculars to scan the area and then direct Nicky’s line of sight. But just as often, Nicky’s sharp eye had already found its mark.

Joe was proud that he and Nicky’s involvement in the Old Guard had not just been successful, but had also been evolving into more practical work in the field. And, normally, he was glad of it. But not tonight.

He and Nicky were stationed on a roof a few hundred metres away from the warehouse Booker, Andy and Quynh had entered ten minutes before, so they were powerless to do anything but witness the explosion that immediately sent the building up in flames.

Nicky let out a sound like he was dying, and Joe had to leap forward to catch him round the middle as Nicky sprang up and away from his post.

“Nicky! Nicky!” Joe begged, trying to keep Nicky with him as Nicky fought against him. Nicky’s eyes were wild and Joe knew him well enough to know Nicky was torn between running right towards the fire to try and save their family, or running away from the sight of another family going up in flames.

Nicky still hated fire. The fear and panic in his eyes was the fear and panic of a six year old boy.

“Nicky, look at me,” Joe tried, cupping Nicky’s face and carefully turning him so that Nicky wasn’t looking toward the fire anymore, “ _See_ me. Please.”

Joe saying 'please' was always effective on Nicky. Nicky’s eyes focused in a little more on Joe, the glaze of flight or fight response clearing from them enough that Joe knew Nicky was finally listening to him.

“They are immortal,” Joe reminded him firmly. His own stomach was turning at the thought of his guardians burning and in pain and then having to heal from it, but he forced the words out to help ease Nicky’s fears. “They are immortal and they are going to survive this. We need to make sure they get out of the building without any more problems than the fire. We can’t move from here right now.”

Nicky watched him for a second, his eyes flicking over Joe’s face. “I can see the flames reflected in your eyes, Joe,” Nicky said, breath catching.

“Then don’t look at my eyes,” Joe told him.

Nicky’s lips quirked up in the tiniest shadow of a smile, “That's asking the impossible of me.”

They breathed together for a few more seconds, Nicky’s eyes never leaving Joe’s, so Joe saw the moment the protective wall descended over Nicky’s emotions; disconnecting himself so that he could focus once more on the job in hand.

“I’m ok,” Nicky told him finally, “I’m ok. You’re right, Joe. We…we need to make sure they get out ok.”

Joe smiled at him encouragingly, and stuck close to his side as they simultaneously turned to watch over the warehouse. Nicky got his rifle back in hand and lay in wait, keeping his scope moving for any sign, and Joe did the same with his binoculars.

It was an agonising five minutes, but five minutes later a window was kicked out from the inside, and someone tumbled out onto the concrete.

Joe couldn’t stop the noise of concern and sympathy he made, and he felt Nicky go rigidly still beside him.

“It’s Andy,” Nicky said, “And Quynh,” he added, as someone else followed close behind.

“Booker?” Joe asked, binoculars constantly moving for any sign of him.

“Not yet,” Nicky said, “Quynh is helping Andy move. It looks bad.”

Joe moved his binoculars to watch them. Quynh was half carrying and half dragging Andy towards where they left the car. “She’ll heal,” Joe said, even as his own voice sounded choked. He reached out to circle his fingers around Nicky’s arm to ground him, “She’ll heal.”

“Where’s Booker?” Nicky growled under his breath in frustration.

“There!” Joe only just stopped himself from shouting it and potentially giving away their position. He pointed to the other side of the building, where Booker was tearing down the side of it at a sprint. “He’s there!”

They watched their guardians all pile into the car, Booker in the driver’s seat, but just as Joe was about to breathe a sigh of relief as the car set off, another car pulled out from behind a nearby building to follow in pursuit.

“Nicky,” Joe said, “Nicky they are going to…”

But Nicky had already fired his sniper rifle. The pursuing car’s tyre blew out and the car shrieked to a stop. The Old Guard’s car stopped too.

Joe and Nicky both watched through their respective lenses as Quynh calmly got out of the Old Guard's car, and walked towards the other car while shooting the occupants through their windshield. Their pursuers dead, she then turned and saluted up to Nicky; praising him for a shot well aimed.

Only then did Nicky relax at Joe’s side.

Nicky had just taken his first shot in service of the Old Guard. And he had hit his mark.

***

Nicky would have broken every speed limit on the way back to the motel if Joe hadn’t reminded him that while Andy, Quynh and Booker were immortal, he and Nicky were not. Nicky had reached over the gearstick to grip Joe’s hand in apology, but Joe had just squeezed his fingers back in silent understanding.

The consuming fear Nicky had felt on seeing the warehouse catch fire was still ringing in his veins. The urge to try and rescue his family warring with the urge to run away from the sight and smell of the blaze had blindsided him, made him feel sick.

Joe had talked him down, calmed him down. Joe, whose brown eyes had reflected his own fear back at Nicky, but had still reassured him that their guardians would be fine. Joe, whose eyes had reflected the flames back at Nicky because Joe had made sure that it was him facing the fire and not Nicky. He had gotten Nicky to refocus his mind, and it was in that calm presence of Joe that Nicky had forced his shaking hands to stop long enough to take the shot that blew out the tyres of the car pursuing the Old Guard’s getaway.

Nicky would forever be grateful for everything Joe did for him, but he also needed more than that now. He needed to get back to the motel and see with his own eyes that their guardians were safe, and in one piece, and healed. He needed to make sure that he hadn’t lost a second set of parents to fire. It was the first time he and Joe had truly witnessed the Old Guard in peril since that first time in Nice, thirteen years ago now, when they had been gunned down in the doorway of the safe house. Nicky had almost forgotten what it was like.

Nicky swung the car into park at the motel and climbed out of it immediately, knowing Joe would follow as he strode towards the Old Guard’s rooms. He knew they had made it back – their car was in the lot – but he needed to see them with his own eyes.

He opened the door to Andy and Quynh’s room, and then stumbled back out of it again, backwards into Joe, as the smell of burnt hair, clothes and flesh hit him.

“God,” Nicky moaned, backing up into Joe as much as was physically possible, “Oh…oh god…”

Joe’s hands were at his waist, just placed, not holding him anywhere he didn’t want to be, but Nicky didn’t know _where_ he wanted to be. Even as he recoiled at the memory of that _smell,_ the sight of his three guardians watching him with concern, sooty and smelling like burning but _whole_ and a _live_ made him want to stay.

“Nicky,” Andy ordered, “Wait outside.”

“What? But…” Nicky started.

“Nicky,” Joe urged gently, “Wait outside for me? I won’t be a second.”

Nicky shook his head, conflicted, eyes catching on Booker. Booker sent him a smile and a nod, and finally Nicky nodded back, and moved out of the doorway and back outside.

Joe was only in the room for a minute or so before he was back, catching Nicky’s hand and leading him to their room, which was between Booker’s room and Andy and Quynh’s.

“They are going to shower and clean up, and then we are all going meet in Booker’s room,” Joe informed him.

“I should be better than this,” Nicky confessed his shame quietly, “Andy hates fire as much as I do, and she was _in it_ just now and yet I…”

“Andy has been alive for thousands of years,” Joe reminded him, “She’ll have died every way possible at least twice.”

“But you know fire isn’t the same for her as other deaths,” Nicky protested, “It’s not the same.”

Andy and Quynh had finally told Joe and Nicky, a couple of years ago now, what had happened when they had been captured and accused of witchcraft. They had been dunked, and hung, and sliced, but as they had come back to life each time, they had been found guilty. The day they were due to be burned at the stake for the first time, Quynh had been dragged away, put in an iron maiden, wheeled onto a ship, and then thrown overboard. While he and Joe had always gathered Quynh had been trapped in her iron coffin under the sea for a very long time, they had never fathomed just _how_ long. Quynh had told them, her hand held tightly by Andy’s, that it wasn’t until Booker became immortal and shared dreams of and with her, that Andy and Booker had been able to narrow Andy’s search, and even then it had taken 20 years of Booker’s immortality to find Quynh.

“Wait,” Joe had said at the time, calculating, horrified, “You went into the sea in the 1600s, and didn’t get found until the 1800s?”

“Two hundred years,” Quynh had confirmed.

“Two hundred and two,” Andy had corrected gravely.

“Drowning…repeatedly…for two hundred and two years…” Joe had sounded distant, and Nicky had caught his hand, struggling to even imagine what Quynh must have felt, and how terrifying it must have been.

After hearing Quynh's story, they had learned of what Andy had endured after Quynh had been taken. Andy had been burnt at the stake. Numerous times, when the first time hadn't worked. Her captors had then moved on to different methods, until eventually they had given up trying to kill her. Andy had been kept captive in a locked room for years. She had eventually escaped, having outlived some of her captors and outsmarted the rest. By the end of Andy and Quynh’s story, the four of them had been holding each other’s hands in silent support.

Andy had endured being burned alive so many times. And Nicky couldn’t even enter a room to see how she was after it had happened again.

“I know what you’re worrying about,” Joe said as he steered Nicky to sit down on one of the beds, “Andy is fine. I think she didn’t want you to see her like that just as much as you didn’t want to see her like that. You’ll see her in an hour or so, and she will be just fine.”

Joe sat on the bed next to him, and Nicky immediately turned around to wrap his arms around Joe’s middle, resting his head on Joe’s lap. Joe carded his fingers comfortingly through Nicky’s hair, and they waited together.

***

When the quiet knock sounded on the door, Nicky and Joe untangled themselves and headed for the door. The Old Guard had already passed by and gone into Booker’s room, where the smell of smoke and burning hadn’t touched. Nicky and Joe followed them there.

The first person that Nicky found with his eyes as he walked in was Andy. She had clearly caught the worst of the fire, with how Quynh had had to help carry her away from the warehouse. Some of Andy’s hair must have been singed and burned too, because in the last hour it had been cut a lot shorter. As Joe went straight to Booker to give him a hug, Nicky headed for Andy and Quynh.

“Andy,” Nicky said, at a loss for what to say, “Your hair…”

Andy sighed, clearly disgruntled, “I know.”

Nicky shook his head, “It looks good.”

Andy’s smile was fond, “Thanks.”

“I told you it was about time for a hairstyle change for you!” Quynh nudged her, “It’s very modern. I like it.”

“You’ll have to cut mine shorter too,” Nicky suggested, “Then we can match.”

Andy’s smile tightened with emotion as she grabbed Nicky’s arm and pulled him into a hug. Nicky was grateful that he couldn’t smell as much smoke and burning in her hair and fresh clothes. There were still hints of it though. Nicky knew well that the smell of smoke and burned things took a long time to truly shake. 

“I’m sorry the fire took you back there,” Andy murmured in his ear.

“I’m sorry if it took you back too,” Nicky responded immediately.

Andy cupped the back of his head, fingers sliding into the shorter hairs at the back of his neck.

“Nicolò,” Quynh said, “That was an impressive shot you took.”

Nicky moved back from Andy, wiping his eyes with his sleeve, “Thanks Auntie Quynh.”

“Now come here and give me a hug.”

Nicky did as he was told.

***

30th May 1993  
Athens, Greece

“Joe.”

Joe looked away from his binoculars to Nicky. Nicky was lying with the utter stillness of a sniper, eye trained to the scope of his rifle. It was kind of eerie, but also kind of hot, how controlled and precise Nicky could be.

“The man at our ten o’clock,” Nicky said, and Joe could hear the undertone of concern in Nicky’s voice.

“What about him?” Joe asked, using his binoculars to look too. They were supposed to be watching the Old Guard’s progress. The man Nicky was pointing out had absolutely nothing to do with the mission.

“Is he taking a gun out of his car?” Nicky asked.

“Oh shit,” Joe muttered, because that was exactly what the man was doing, “Do you think he’s back up?”

“I think he’s someone else entirely,” Nicky said grimly.

The man left his car and bold as brass, strode towards a crowded square of people.

“Fuck, fuck,” Joe chanted under his breath, “Nicky, he’s going to shoot people down.”

People had noticed the gun down in the square, and panic and screaming had already started up. The man raised the gun to aim it at a group of people standing outside a church.

He never made the shot.

Nicky got him first.

Nicky killed for the first time at the age of 24.

***

Nicky had been terribly quiet all afternoon. Televisions everywhere were reporting on the news that a gunman who had entered a public square armed and with intention to take people down with him, had been killed by an unknown shooter. Although the Old Guard had been telling Nicky how proud they were of him, and that his initiative had been the right course of action, Joe knew Nicky was struggling with his conscience. Of course he was. He had just taken a life for the first time.

“You did the right thing, Nicolò,” Andy told him as they sat in a restaurant that evening, “He would have killed many people. You saved lives today. It was a hard choice to make, but the right one.”

“Andromache is right,” Quynh said, matter of fact.

Booker had been sticking as close to Nicky’s side as Joe had, and Booker wrapped his arm around Nicky’s shoulders to hug him, pressing a kiss to his temple. “I know it’s hard,” he said, “But you did the right thing. You saved lives today. I’m proud of you, Nicolò."

Nicky met Joe’s eyes and Joe sent him a supportive smile. There had always been the possibility that once they had officially joined the Old Guard, they might one day have to take a life to save others. He and Nicky had always been aware of that. Still, Joe hadn’t been put in that position yet, so he could only imagine how conflicted Nicky had to be feeling.

Andy ordered Nicky baklava for dessert. Baklava was something that Andy had the sweetest of sweet tooths for, and Nicky had become almost equally obsessed with it. Over the years Andy had brought baklava back for Nicky and Joe, every time she had travelled to a country that made their own version of the sweet treat; Turkey, Egypt, Azerbaijan, Iran…

The Greek version - walnuts used more in the recipe than pistachio – was put before Nicky, and although it only served as a momentary distraction for Nicky, it was worth it for Joe, just to see the smile that graced Nicky’s face.

***

15th October 1993  
Mersin, Turkey

Joe killed for the first time five months later, at the age of 26. They were at the port of Mersin, looking down from their vantage point over the shipping containers, where the Old Guard had planned to intercept and destroy a smuggling ring. It was night time, but the site was lit well enough for Joe and Nicky to see everything go wrong.

Just as they had been powerless watching Booker, Andy and Quynh get caught up in the warehouse fire in Boston over a year ago, they were powerless as they watched Booker get shot down and thrown unceremoniously into one shipping container, and then Andy and Quynh get shot down and their bodies dragged into another.

It was the first time Joe and Nicky had ever seen the Old Guard in an inescapable situation; all three of their guardians caught unawares by their enemy, presumed dead and locked in a container. If Joe and Nicky didn’t do something, then the men would eventually open the shipping containers to dispose of the bodies and find all three of them still alive and uninjured. And god only knew what would happen then. When Andy and Quynh had told them about the witch trials and all that had happened to them, they had made it clear that the Old Guard dreaded capture more than anything else. Capture meant continuous torture, or containment – unable to truly die but unable to get away – or _testing_ , once people figured out that they were immortal and wanted to figure out why and how, and gain immortality for themselves.

“We have to get down there,” Joe said, “Or we’ll lose them.”

Nicky had nodded, agreeing immediately.

The smugglers had taken the Old Guard by surprise, but the Old Guard wasn’t made up of just three immortals - not anymore. The smugglers had believed they had taken out everyone who was after them, but they were wrong. Joe and Nicky caught them unawares, and approached the situation methodically. The first person Joe shot was at close range, and although he knew that the man’s face was probably going to haunt him forever, Joe forced himself to push it aside until he had his family back. He could freak out later. Right now, he had a job to do.

He and Nicky were a seamless team, watching each other’s backs, moving fluidly, passing weapons they picked up between them, until finally, the site was clear.

“You get Andy and Quynh,” Joe said, “I’ll get Booker.”

Nicky nodded, and they split up to open a shipping container each.

***

Booker groaned back to consciousness and into darkness. He squinted, trying to figure out where he was, before realising that whoever had shot him had dumped his body in a shipping container, presuming he was dead.

He stood up and paced around the space, calculating how best to catch by surprise the next person to open the shipping container doors.

Things were quiet outside, but it didn’t take long for gunfire to start up again. Booker hoped it was Andy and Quynh, and that they would find him soon, because he didn’t much like being locked up. The worst containment of his life had been several months held captive in a concrete bunker. He didn’t want to go through anything like that again. He was worried too, that Joe and Nicky might have witnessed what happened and would be worrying about him. So the sooner Andy and Quynh rescued him, the sooner he could see Joe and Nicky and let them know he was alright.

He waited, listening at the door for any sign as to what was happening, and who was winning, until quiet eventually fell again, the gunfire dying out. Booker just hoped it meant that Andy and Quynh had won.

He was stunned, then, to hear a voice from outside ask “Book? You in this one?”

“Joe?” he asked, concerned to hear his son’s voice in the middle of the battle zone.

There was the clanging sound of the bolt being lifted and shoved aside, and then the heavy door was hauled open.

“Book,” Joe sounded relieved, “Thank god for that.”

“Joe?” Booker stepped out to survey the site.

Joe had a gun in his hand, and there were some dead smugglers lying a few metres away. Booker looked to the right and saw Nicky, sniper rifle slung over his shoulder, heaving open the door of another shipping container.

“The same thing that happened to you happened to Andy and Quynh,” Joe explained, looking sheepish, because he knew he and Nicky had just broken every rule Booker had laid down when he had allowed them to join the Old Guard. “We had to do something, or they might have shipped you away, or come to dispose of your bodies and found you still alive. We couldn’t lose you, or let you be captured.”

Booker reached out to squeeze Joe’s shoulder. He glanced down at the gun again, held loosely in Joe’s fingers. “You killed tonight?”

Joe grimaced, “Trying not to think about that too much right now,” he said, “But we…” he never got to finish, because Booker saw movement over Joe’s shoulder, a gun lifting to point directly at them – directly at _Joe_ – and Booker grabbed him.

Booker bodily swung Joe around just in time to take the bullet that had been intended for Joe. As the bullet hit Booker’s back it punched the air out of him with an ‘ugh’ sound that had become grimly familiar to him over the decades.

In his periphery Booker noticed Nicky lifting his weapon and shooting whoever had shot at them, but the rest of Booker’s attention was on Joe, because Joe was staring at him in shock and guilt and devastation. Because Booker had just taken a bullet for him.

Booker knew from experience that the bullet had hit something vital and that it was going to kill him before his body could push it out and heal. He staggered forwards and Joe caught him, wide eyed and freaking out at Booker dying in his arms.

“Booker, Baba I’m so sorry,” Joe was stammering as he helped lower Booker to the floor, “Baba I’m so sorry. Booker forgive me…”

“Hey,” Booker managed, and he lifted his hand enough for Joe to get the message, grabbing Bookers’ hand and holding it tightly to his chest, “It’s ok. Better me than you.” he had to stop his reassurance as he coughed up blood.

Joe’s eyes were brimming and spilling with tears, “Not because of me,” Joe said, distraught, “You shouldn’t have to die for me.”

"Nothing I would rather die for than you two," Booker told him, tasting blood on his teeth, “I’ll see you…” he started, forcing out each word, as he began to feel that familiar numbness, see that familiar blackness smudging the edges of his vision, “…in a second…ok?”

And then Booker died.

He gasped back to life with his family surrounding him; possibly the nicest revival he’d ever had.

Andy and Quynh were standing over him, watchful of both him and the surrounding area, but Joe and Nicky were on their knees on either side of him.

“Book…” Joe’s voice sounded hoarse and broken as he reached for him, hands fisting in Booker’s shirt, as Nicky’s long fingers slipped behind Booker’s head to stop it hitting against the concrete.

“Joe,” Booker said, he could feel the bullet, now pushed back out of his body, digging him in the back where he lay on it. He sat up, Joe and Nicky guiding him up. Once upright Booker pulled Joe right into his arms and Joe collapsed against him. Booker hushed him, and when Nicky’s arms looped around them from behind, Booker caught Nicky’s hands and held them between him and Joe.

“I’m fine,” Booker told them, “I’m fine, see?”

“You’ve never died for me before,” Joe protested, and Booker moved him back enough to look him in the eye.

“And I would do it again,” Booker vowed, “And again and again and again. Your dad’s immortal, Joe, take advantage of it.”

It had the desired effect; a laugh was shocked out of Joe, and he smiled, even as his eyes still shone with tears. He hugged Booker tightly again.

“Thank you,” Nicky murmured in Booker’s ear, his face still pressed into Booker’s shoulder, and Booker moved his arm up to cup the back of Nicky’s head in acknowledgment.

“Sorry boys, but we have to go,” Andy told them, reaching out to help pull Booker to his feet. “You did good, Book,” Andy told him, placing her palm on his cheek.

As they left the shipping containers Quynh whistled under her breath, impressed at the sight of the dispatched smugglers, “You boys were busy.”

Booker watched Nicky shrug, his sniper rifle lifting and falling with the motion, “Our family was in danger,” he said, “So we did something about it.”

“Joe?” Quynh realised what that meant, turning to look at Joe, who was walking right at Booker’s side, “Your first kill?”

“Err,” Joe seemed stunned, and Booker imagined that after the shock of having Booker die in his arms, Joe had pushed the other torments of the night to the back of his mind, “Yes?”

He sounded off kilter, and they could all hear it, but Andy, ever the expert in compartmentalising, just nodded sagely and said, “We’ll pick up some baklava on the way home. Turkish baklava is my favourite. You’re going to love it.”

“Is this what we do now?” Quynh asked, “Help our boys’ deal with killing bad guys by supplying them with aftermath baklava?”

“May as well make a tradition out of it.”

***

“Joe?” Nicky asked, when they were safe in bed two hours later.

“Hmm?”

“You ok?”

“I will be.”

Nicky and Joe often slept on their sides; Nicky’s back to Joe’s front so Joe could spoon up behind him. But now Nicky turned, so he could look into Joe’s eyes. He lifted his hand to trace soothing fingertips down Joe’s stubbled cheek. Joe closed his eyes and took a deep, calming breath.

“Are we cut out for this Nico?” Joe asked.

Nicky watched Joe with concern, with love, because Booker had taken a bullet tonight that had been meant for Joe. If Booker hadn’t reacted as quickly as he had, Joe would have died. Nicky would have lost him.

Nicky loved being a part of the Old Guard, helping people, being with their family. But this was the most involved in a dangerous mission he and Joe had ever been, and Joe could have been killed. Nicky knew he and Joe were good at what they did, but the inescapability of their mortality had never been clearer to him than at that moment. 

“I think we are,” Nicky said finally, after weighing his response, “We are just a bit too mortal for it.”

Joe laughed quietly, and he reached out to run his fingers into Nicky’s hair. “Don’t die on me, ok?” he said.

“I have no intention of going anywhere,” Nicky said, “I could never leave you behind. Just like you had better never leave me behind...I was so scared tonight. For a second I thought Booker hadn't moved fast enough and my heart stopped."

Nicky’s hand framed Joe’s face as Joe moved to kiss him, gentle and slow and comforting; reminding each other that they were still here. That Joe was still here.

“Do you think they will ask us to take a step back?” Joe asked, “Away from the action again?”

“Maybe,” Nicky admitted, “Do you want that too?”

“Maybe,” Joe said, “We could see how the next job goes?”

Nicky leaned forwards this time, to press his lips to Joe’s forehead, breathe him in, hold him close, “We’ll see how the next job goes,” Nicky agreed.


	10. 1994 - 1999

6th November 1994  
Phoenix, Arizona, USA

Booker ducked into the car, radioing through to Joe and Nicky, “Come in, boys. We’re all finished here. See you back at base. Over.”

Joe’s voice crackled back, “Glad to hear it, Book, we’ll head back now. See you there. Over and out.”

Booker held a hand up in recognition in the direction he knew Nicky and Joe had been staked out as the Old Guard’s sniper and spotter. He knew if Joe was at the radio, Nicky would likely still have his eye on his scope, and Booker always liked to acknowledge them for a job well done.

And it _had_ been a job well done.

The Old Guard had just taken out a branch of a drug cartel that had been operating over the Mexico-United States border. They had also freed a group of kidnapped victims of people smuggling. 

The Old Guard stayed another fifteen minutes with the freed victims, to make sure that they were all uninjured from the fighting, and to make sure that the police had been called and were on their way.

Having gained the word of the rescued group that the police wouldn’t hear too much about the mysterious group of people that had taken out the cartel and freed their victims, Booker finally climbed into the backseat of the car.

Quynh whooped enthusiastically as she swung into the passenger seat. “Let’s get out of here! Nicolò promised that he would start heating up last night’s lasagne as soon as they got back. I’m _starving_.”

Andy grinned as she started the car.

It had been over a year since the incident in Turkey; where Nicky and Joe had been forced to enter the action to save the Old Guard, Joe had killed for the first time, and Booker had taken a bullet for Joe. Booker had worried about the fact that the boys had been getting increasingly involved in the Old Guard’s missions – and therefore increasingly at risk – by the year. It had been such a natural progression from only coming on certain missions and staying at the safe house, to coming on all relief missions, to acting as lookouts, to acting as sniper and spotter, to actually getting into action, that Booker hadn’t challenged it enough at the time, because half the time he hadn’t really noticed. Joe and Nicky fitted so seamlessly into the team, and were sensible, communicated well, and only took action when absolutely necessary, so they had become natural assets that the team trusted on missions more and more.

But after Turkey, Booker had been given a stark reminder that it had never been about needing to trust Joe and Nicky; it had been about not being able to trust whoever the Old Guard were fighting not to harm his sons. After Turkey Booker had considered speaking to his team – his _family_ – about his concerns, but it appeared that the boys had come to their own conclusions. Joe had clearly been shaken by Booker dying for him, and they had taken a natural step back themselves; returning to only acting as lookout when the Old Guard absolutely needed them, over the increasingly regularity that they had been. It was still good to have them on missions; they were professional when they did act as lookouts, but otherwise they returned to primarily staying at the Old Guard’s base of operations and sticking to research. They had clearly felt better for it, and Booker did too, knowing that the boys were safe at base.

Or so he thought.

Booker knew something was wrong as he, Andy and Quynh arrived at the house they had been renting for the last month. Normally they would return to music playing, or the chatter of Joe and Nicky inside. The house was too quiet. It was too dark. Joe liked to turn lights on; he liked to fill rooms with brightness. The front door was closed, and it didn’t look like it had been forced open, but still Booker instinctively felt a building of dread.

He wasn’t alone in that. Andy and Quynh had frozen beside him, watching the house cautiously.

“I’ll go in the front,” Booker whispered, “You’ll know if something’s wrong.” He didn’t usually give orders, but Andy didn’t even question him.

“Quynh stay here on the street,” Andy said, “Provide backup. Make sure there's no-one watching the house. I’ll go round the back and do the same.”

And immediately the Old Guard sprang into action.

Booker took out his gun and moved quickly but carefully up the steps to the front door, listening for any kind of chatter inside. He opened the door as slowly and quietly as possible, and left it ajar behind him, so that Quynh could see from where she had positioned herself behind the car. Booker held his gun at the ready, edging towards the living space. He turned into the doorway, clearing the room, before moving on towards the kitchen. Nicky had promised to get the lasagne in the oven to reheat as soon as he and Joe got home; the fact there was no noise from the kitchen and no smell of the food had Booker on edge.

There was definitely something wrong. His heart was beating double time, the hairs of his arms standing on end.

He took a deep, steadying breath before turning, gun at the ready, to look into the kitchen. It took all of his energy not to freak out and lose focus at the sight of his sons.

Two dining chairs had been turned to face the doorway, and Joe and Nicky had been tied to them. His heart broke at the sight of his sons bound and gagged. Joe seemed to be unconscious, slumped forward against the ties keeping him to the chair. Nicky was awake, his sea-green eyes wide and apologetic and fearful as he stared back at Booker. Nicky made a noise of warning through his gag, and Booker only had a moment to clock that Nicky was bleeding from his shoulder, before he felt the familiar pressure of a gun pushing against his head from behind.

“Merde,” he snarled. 

“We knew we were being watched,” one of the two men standing behind Nicky and Joe said, “We’ve been watching you right back. When we heard our base of ops had been compromised, it didn’t take much to figure out where we needed to go for revenge. So we broke in, and we waited, and we shot to kill as soon as the door opened,” he said, gesturing at Nicky and Joe, and Booker’s chest seized at the thought “But lucky for them, they moved fast.”

Booker realised that Nicky’s shoulder wound was a bullet that had probably been intended for his heart. He glanced at Joe and bit down panic when he realised why Joe was unconscious. There was a trail of blood down the side of Joe’s face; an intended head shot that hadn’t met its mark, and had hopefully just grazed his temple instead.

“Or maybe not so lucky for them,” the man behind Nicky said, “Because when we realised we’d only got two out of the five of you, we thought we’d wait for the rest of you to turn up before we followed through on killing anybody.” He held the gun up to Nicky’s head, “That might seem pretty fucking generous, considering you’ve wiped out half our men, but this is anything _but_ generous. This, I plan to be _torture_.”

“No,” Booker lurched forward, holding up a placating hand. He stopped himself short though; the gun to Nicky’s head and the one pressed to the back of his own keeping him at bay. He knew getting himself shot would only make things worse by healing immediately or coming back from the dead.

He had an advantage here, Booker knew, in that these men had no idea that Booker was immortal. But he had to be careful, because Joe and Nicky were not, and if Booker fought back at the wrong moment, a bullet could easily catch Nicky or Joe in the crossfire before Booker could stop it. It was too dangerous for him to act when a gun was pressed to Nicky’s head.

“Where are the other two? The women?” the man demanded.

“I don’t know,” Booker said immediately. He held Nicky's gaze and hoped he was giving him some reassurance that the Old Guard were here, and that they wouldn't rest until he and Joe were safe.

“I don’t think you are quite appreciating the situation you’re in here,” he was warned. Another chair was kicked out, and the man behind Booker pressed his gun harder into the back of Booker’s head. “Sit down.”

Booker held his hands up, placating, and was about to move, mind working furiously and hoping Andy and Quynh had been working on a plan since they had inevitably realised what was going on, when Joe gasped back to consciousness.

“Joe?” Booker called to him immediately, wanting Joe to know that he was there, that Andy and Quynh were there for him and Nicky.

Joe’s pained groan was muffled by the gag, and when the other man behind the chairs walked forward and grabbed a handful of Joe’s hair and lifted his head up, Booker could see the glazed look in Joe’s eyes. Nicky’s terrified eyes shot to Joe, and he made a sound of anger and upset behind his gag.

“Someone’s finally awake,” the man said, “Just in time. You,” he demanded of Booker, “Sit.”

“Please, don’t...” Booker said, because he needed to buy time. If he sat down, he would get tied into the chair, and it would take him longer to act if he needed to. “Don’t...”

"Don't what? Hurt them?" The man behind Joe held a gun to the temple that wasn’t tacky with blood, and the man behind Nicky dug his gun into Nicky’s cheek and grasped Nicky’s wounded shoulder, hard. Booker blanched at how visibly the blood drained from Nicky’s face at the pain; he looked pale and faint and sick and the whimper of pain he made - that Booker just _knew_ he will have tried to swallow down - broke Booker’s heart.

And then Booker was shot in the back of the head.

He woke up a few seconds later, of course, but had to be told afterwards what exactly happened; Andy and Quynh had killed the cartel’s men standing watch around the house. Quynh had entered the house and shot the man with a gun to Booker’s head, and the impact made the man’s finger jerk on the trigger and shoot Booker. The gunshots did what Quynh and Andy had expected them to; the two men holding guns on Nicky and Joe swung their aim towards the threat, at which point Andy neatly shot them from outside the kitchen window with two quick shots of her sniper rifle. Quynh had been shot as the two men went down, but not fatally. So, by the time Booker woke up from the headshot, all their assailants were dead, the bullet that had gone straight through Quynh’s neck was already healed, and she and Andy were already looking over Joe and Nicky.

Booker coughed back to his senses and he didn’t bother standing up; just dragged himself the metre or so it took to reach the boys.

Quynh had already freed the arm of Nicky’s that hadn’t been injured, so Booker clutched his hand immediately, pressing a kiss to it. Nicky’s eyes found his, and they were wide and bright in a fever of pain Booker knew too well.

Booker reached out to cradle Joe’s face with his other hand, and tried to make eye contact with him, too. Joe’s eyes still looked a little unfocused.

“It’s going to be a killer headache,” Andy warned with sympathy, working on the tie of the gag to free Joe.

Booker tried to remember what a long-lasting headache felt like. The short one he was currently experiencing would be gone in a matter of a few more seconds.

Quynh had ungagged Nicky and untied his other arm, and was inspecting his shoulder, “Honestly Nicolò,” Quynh teased, but her voice was tight; they all knew this had been a close, close call, “I have only just recovered from the last time you injured this arm.”

“I was twelve, Auntie Quynh,” Nicky commented through gritted teeth, playing light to humour her despite the obvious pain he was in.

“Yes, well,” Quynh clicked her tongue, “Thirteen years is not long enough.”

Booker let go of Nicky’s hand and Nicky immediately moved his good hand to find Joe’s, turning to look at him at the same time.

“Joe,” Nicky said in Arabic, “Are you with me?”

“Always,” Joe replied, not able to look back at Nicky because Andy was still holding his head still, inspecting the wound. “Not going anywhere.”

“Andy?” Booker asked.

“The bullet just grazed him. The wound isn’t too deep, but it might need closing to avoid scarring.”

“Quynh?”

“There’s no exit wound,” Quynh said, concerned, gently inspecting Nicky’s shoulder, “The bullet’s still in there. We need to get them to a hospital.”

“Nicolò?” Joe asked, softly, like speaking any louder would be too much for him. No doubt his head and his ears were still ringing.

“Yes?” Nicky replied, the word sharp and pain-laced as he flinched, and Quynh apologised quietly as she continued to wrap his shoulder.

“Are you ok?” Joe asked. Andy let him go, so Joe turned to look at Nicky, wincing, and Booker didn’t know if it was because of his own pain, or at the sight of Nicky’s; likely a combination of both. “Your arm…”

“It’ll heal,” Nicky promised.

But they had all just had the terrifying reminder that that might not always be the case.

***

28th November 1994  
Sanguinet, France

“Six years!” Joe stated fiercely, “It has been _six years_ since I officially joined the Old Guard. And five years for Nicky! Half a decade! At least fifteen missions! And in that time we’ve only fucked up _twice_ and you are ready to ban us from working with you completely?!”

Booker scrubbed a tired hand over a tired face, “You didn’t fuck up either time,” he said, “The first time you saved us from capture and the second time you were ambushed – and that was on _us_ not noticing that we were being watched.”

Nicky could understand why Booker was tired. Nicky knew Booker was devastated. Nicky knew why. But he also knew exactly why Joe was so upset and devastated in turn.

“Then why are you telling us that we have to live completely civilian lives?!” Joe demanded, “Why aren’t you giving us a choice to carry on with you if we wanted to?! We've gone back to being just researchers, staying in the safe houses…”

“They ambushed you _in_ our base of ops, Joe! I was stupid to ever think that any of our safe houses or bases of ops would ever be one hundred percent safe! I should have rethought this so many times…”

“Rethought it?” Nicky spoke up, coldly, “You wish you had not allowed us to join you at all?”

Joe was often the most open of the two of them with his feelings; he wore them on his sleeve. When Joe was upset, he expressed it. He was an outwardly passionate soul, who would let you know if he felt betrayed or angry or sad. Nicky was quieter with his negative emotions, but that did not mean he did not feel them any less. Joe was quick to tantrum and quick to let it go. He didn’t hold grudges like Nicky did. There had been a boy in their football team when they were children called Pierre who had been mean to Joe and Joe had been upset and unthinkingly mean back in the heat of the moment, but he and Pierre had been friends again by the next practice. It had taken Nicky a few more weeks to properly forgive Pierre.

So while Joe was being the most vocal now in his upset with Booker and Andy and Quynh for sitting them down and telling them that they wanted them to give up the Old Guard and live the rest of their lives as civilians, Nicky was by no means not equally upset.

“That is not what he means,” Andy said, where she and Quynh were sitting next to each other on the sofa, tight-faced and solemn, “You have both been assets to us.”

Joe threw his hands up, “Then I don’t see why we can’t still be assets! After what happened in Turkey Nicky and I reconsidered being in the team too, and we took the step back, but after another couple of jobs we knew we had been right to stay! Just one close call shouldn’t be enough for us to give up…”

“A close call?!” Booker exclaimed, and Nicky could hear how his voice choked, “You both nearly _died_!”

“And you didn’t think that wouldn’t ever happen?” Joe countered, “You honestly thought…”

“Well, I was wrong!” Booker lurched to his feet, “I should never have let you get so involved! Get so close to danger!”

“So you want to what?” Joe’s lip curled, “You want to leave us behind? Is that it? After all the years we have worked as a part of the team, you just want us to stop?”

“I want you to _live_!” Booker protested, “I want you both to live your lives to the fullest! To enjoy your time without having to worry about getting shot or hurt or killed every few months! You can’t do that in the Old Guard. If you stay, the likelihood is that it’d be our work that gets you killed…No. No. Can’t you understand? I’m not doing this to…to punish you, or leave you behind, or because I don’t appreciate everything you’ve done. It’s because I’m terrified! I don’t want to have to bury you, Joe!”

“Bury us _yet_ , you mean?” Joe threw back viciously, tears in his eyes, as he turned around and fled the room.

Nicky watched Booker sit down heavily, stunned that for the first time, one of his adopted sons had used Booker’s immortality against him.

“He didn’t mean that,” Nicky said, voice fringed with tears he couldn’t swallow down, “You know he didn’t. He’ll feel awful for it already.” Nicky got to his feet, “I should go and find him.”

“Nicolò,” Booker urged, reaching out to snag his good wrist, because the other one was still in a sling, “You understand, don’t you?”

“I can’t say it doesn’t hurt me,” Nicky said, “Because that would be a lie. We…” he sighed, and squeezed Booker’s hand, “We understand that a civilian life would be safer for us, and that you want to keep us safe, and we did have a moment after Turkey where we wondered, but we ultimately chose our family, our team. We took a step back from the action and thought that would be enough. We can understand why you are doing this, Book, and we might have agreed, but then we overheard you all talking about the fact you won’t be able to continue living in Sanguinet for much longer either because you’ve lived here fifteen years and haven’t physically aged a day. It all got…a bit much.”

Booker looked mortified that Nicky and Joe had overheard the discussion of their guardians. But Nicky and Joe had heard everything; they had heard that the Old Guard planned to give the house to Joe and Nicky, and move elsewhere themselves, so that the locals didn’t start asking questions about why Nicky and Joe were aging, but their parents and guardians were not.

“I am not abandoning you,” Booker told him, possibly more serious than Nicky had ever seen him, “I would _never_ abandon you.”

“ _We_ would never abandon you,” Quynh added, “We love you boys so much.”

“This isn’t to punish you,” Andy repeated Booker’s words from before, “It is to keep you safe.”

Nicky understood. He did. It had only been three weeks since he had been shot in the shoulder; he still had it in a sling, it still ached. He knew Joe understood too. What the Old Guard were saying was not at all unreasonable, but old fears of abandonment and wounded pride by this U-turn decision that had been made for them after only the second close call in six years of missions, had won out once they had overheard the Old Guard talking of not just leaving Nicky and Joe to civilian lives, but leaving the house in Sanguinet too. Nicky knew it wasn’t going to end well before the argument had even started.

The Old Guard's decision was the sensible, right choice. That was undeniable. Nicky had been so, so afraid that night, shot in the shoulder and strapped to a chair, gagged, in pain and powerless to free himself, and powerless to help Joe, who wouldn’t _wake up_ for so long. That night he had been in a blind panic of fear for Joe’s life, and for his own. He never ever wanted to experience that again. He knew, that one day, he would thank the Old Guard for this decision. But right now, there was too much emotional turmoil at play to think with logical heads.

Joe needed time. And Nicky would probably need even more time than that.

“I understand,” Nicky vowed to the Old Guard again, squeezing Booker’s hand and turning to nod at Andy and Quynh, “And Joe does too. I know he does. It just…it hurts anyway.”

And he left the room. He felt absolutely terrible hearing Booker let out an audible sob behind him. He also felt absolutely terrible finding Joe in tears in their room.

“They say they aren’t abandoning us, but they are _leaving_ us, Nicolò…” Joe sobbed.

Nicky curled up next to Joe on the bed, tears slipping down his own cheeks too.

***

Booker had felt sick all day. The argument had been the worst he had ever had with Joe and Nicky. Finding out that the boys had overheard the Old Guard’s discussion of also having to move on from Sanguinet was mortifying. No wonder they had been so upset and defensive from the moment Booker, Andy and Quynh had sat them down.

Booker had his flask in his hand and had turned his armchair towards the patio doors, trying to take his mind off the fact that he had caused his boys such emotional pain, by trying to save them from any more physical pain. He tried to memorise the view of the sunset from the patio doors instead, knowing he wouldn’t get many more chances to take in the Sanguinet sunset until after the next generation were too old to remember Booker, Andy and Quynh had ever lived there.

It felt like the end of something. The end of an era. An end to the happiest fifteen years he had had since he had revealed his immortality to his mortal family. There had been such wonderful joy in raising Joe and Nicky; teaching them, playing football with them, reading or watching television together, having dinner, taking them to their hobbies and cheering them on from the side-lines like any mortal parent. Things were going to drastically change now, and Booker didn’t know how he would handle it. Especially if he and the boys parted on bad terms.

He started to raise the flask to his lips, but a hand stopped it and pushed it down.

“Flask in hand and not even hearing me sneak up on you,” Joe’s voice said from behind his chair, “You really _must_ be upset.”

Booker knew what Joe was doing; trying for light hearted because it was what Joe did any time he and Booker had some sort of argument. Joe was so quick to forgive, and hope to be forgiven. Normally Booker could do the same. But not today.

“I’m not upset,” Booker confessed raggedly, “I’m _devastated_.”

“Baba…” the concern in Joe’s voice as he rounded the chair and knelt next to it, and the concern in his face, was almost too much for Booker to bear, “Booker I’m so sorry, for what I said. I didn’t mean it. It was intentionally vicious of me because I was upset but I know that is no excuse. It was such an awful thing for me to say and I wish I never did…”

“Joe,” Booker reached out to take Joe’s hands, “I’m not upset about _that_ , god knows you had the right to be upset, and the reality is, what you said wasn’t inaccurate, as painful as the reminder was…”

Joe flinched, “I’m sorry.”

“No, _I’m_ sorry,” Booker said, “I’m sorry we let you and Nicolò become so involved in the Old Guard to then ask you to leave it the first time anything went wrong. I’m sorry that you had to overhear us talking about leaving Sanguinet. It’s…it’s just…”

“You’re immortal,” Joe said quietly, “I know. But I also know that I have absolutely no idea what it _feels_ for you all to be immortal. I could never imagine how hard it must be for you all not to be able to stay in the same place for too long, to have to watch people you get to know and care about grow old when you don’t. I’m sorry, Booker, for all the places and people you have had to leave behind.” Before Booker could adamantly remind him that Booker didn’t intend for a second to leave Joe and Nicky behind, Joe continued, “You have to remember, though, that while Nicky and I are mortal, and despite my childish words earlier – which I'm so ashamed of – we accepted the realities of your immortality to our mortality a long time ago. So we are not like any other mortals you have ever met, because we can continue to see you as we grow old, and you will know that we won’t freak out that you don’t age, and you can trust that we will always, _always_ keep your secret. And that is why I know, I _know_ , Booker, that you would never leave us behind.”

“And we won’t leave you behind either,” Nicky promised, coming to stand on the other side of Booker’s chair, and Booker had no doubt that Nicky had been there the whole time, letting Joe make his apologies and say his piece. “For as long as we’re able, we won’t leave you behind.”

Booker sobbed, letting go of his flask to drop his face into his hand, only to have it prised away so that Joe and Nicky could hug him tight. It was an awkward fit; two twenty-something mortals hugging their two hundred and twenty-something immortal dad on one armchair, but it was one of the hugs Booker knew he would remember forever, and it gave him hope, for not just Joe and Nicky’s futures, but for his own as well.

***

10th January 1995  
Sanginuet, France

The Old Guard spent one last festive season together in Sanguinet. They celebrated Yusuf’s 28th birthday, and Nicolò’s 26th. But finally, Quynh, Andromache and Basti packed up to officially move themselves out of the house in Sanguinet that had been their home for over a decade. It was the longest Quynh and Andromache had spent anywhere since Quynh had been rescued from the ocean. Quynh loved that house.

But she also knew that they would come back. For the next decades they would have to travel to the house discreetly if they were ever to visit, so as not to be spotted by the locals, who would inevitable wonder why those surely-seventy-year-olds looked so fresh faced. Luckily, Basti had picked a house remote enough that that could be possible. But, to be safe, Yusuf and Nicolò had promised to travel to wherever the Old Guard decided to base themselves for the majority of visits. It was possible that Yusuf and Nicolò might not even stay permanently in Sanguinet themselves, if civilian life and employment took them elsewhere. She knew they had plans to go out to Malta for at least a few months.

Saying goodbye was hard. Even though Quynh knew that this goodbye wasn’t forever, and that they would surely see the boys for Basti’s 225th birthday in May unless a mission came up, it still felt like the end of an era, moving out of the house in Sanguinet. And for someone who had lived through several thousand years’ worth of eras, that meant something.

She hugged Nicolò and Yusuf tightly. “You be good,” she told them.

Yusuf raised an eyebrow, “Do you really mean that, Auntie Queen?”

“Of course not. It’s just what people say when they say goodbye isn’t it? Just…I don’t know…don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“That doesn’t leave a lot,” Nicolò teased her, leaning in to kiss her cheek, “So, I think we will be able to manage that.”

Quynh laughed, fondly reaching up to pat the boy’s cheeks – when had they gotten so _tall_? - “We raised you right," she said, before fleeing to the car so that she wouldn’t cry in front of them.

She watched from afar as Andromache hugged the boys in what had become their usual ways – Andromache and Nicolò’s hug long and encompassing, Yusuf’s hug involving picking Andromache up and spinning her round – and then she spoke to them, cupping their faces in her hands.

Last it was Basti’s turn, and Quynh knew this was going to get emotional, so she let the boys hug it out and turned her attention to Andromache, who was heading her way, also giving the boys their own private goodbyes.

“You ok?” Andromache asked her, her elegant, warrior-callused hand felt comforting and grounding where it came to rest at the back of Quynh’s neck.

“I’m fine,” Quynh brushed off Andromache’s concern, “Those boys are destined to thrive with or without us. They’ll be fine. So, I am fine too.”

Andromache pressed a kiss to Quynh’s temple, but before she could draw away, Quynh caught her chin and turned her head to pull Andromache’s smiling mouth against her own.

“You know,” Quynh said, “It’s strange, but I am not sure when exactly I stopped constantly dreading the day the boys' mortality would inevitably…” she stopped herself abruptly, “And when I started simply enjoying every second we have with them.”

“Well, I imagine it was around the time you started to love them as family and accepted them into your heart?” Andromache suggested, because she knew Quynh better than Quynh knew herself, sometimes.

Quynh hummed in agreement, “Well over a decade ago then,” she commented, and she wrapped her arm around Andromache’s waist. “I am so glad you talked me around to visiting so much when they were children, and for making me realise I wanted us to stay here and be involved in their lives. We would have missed so much joy.”

“I cannot tell you how happy it makes me to hear you say that, my love,” Andromache said.

“I’m actually excited for their future,” Quynh admitted, turning to watch the boys and Basti once more, “So much more than I am afraid of when that future might end.”

Andromache took a shuddering breath, and Quynh squeezed her tighter. “I’m excited for their future too,” Andromache said, “And I’m excited to continue to be a part of it.”

***

9th May 1996  
Marsascala, Malta

Joe woke in the peaceful quiet of the morning, his nose buried into the shaved hairs at the back of Nicky’s neck. He breathed him in, and tightened his arms just enough to fully embrace sleep warm skin, and feel the way that Nicky’s body always fit so perfectly against his.

He cherished it for moment, before extracting himself from around his love.

“Joe?” Nicky was awake immediately, always the light sleeper, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, love,” Joe said, “Just going to get some water. Do you want anything?”

Nicky mumbled that he didn’t need anything, and rolled onto his front, wrapping his arms around the pillow and burying his face into it, content to go back to sleep now that he knew everything was fine.

Joe got Nicky a glass of water and filled a bowl with grapes anyway, just in case. He carried them back upstairs and had to pause in the doorway to take in the sight of his Nicolò, laid out in white sheets that he had kicked down to cover only up to his waist. The sunlight shining through the window lit Nicky’s pale skin a beautiful light gold; the lines and muscle of his back perfectly highlighted. Joe’s fingers itched for a pencil and a paintbrush, but they itched for Nicolò more.

He quietly put the two glasses and the bowl down on the bedside table, before lowering himself slowly down onto the mattress, so that he was partially pressed along Nicky’s back.

“Nicolò,” Joe purred into his ear, trailing kisses from Nicky’s neck to his bare shoulder, “I cannot put into words how beautiful you are.”

“Actually,” Nicky said, sounding far more alert than Joe had expected – and Joe realised that Nicky had been waiting, anticipating this reaction from him, the tease – “You tell me in the most beautiful words, all the time.”

“Well, it’s early,” Joe teased, smoothing his hand down Nicky’s back and stopping at where the sheet stopped just below his hips, “Words won’t come to me properly for another hour or so yet.”

Nicky turned over, offering himself up on the mattress, “Maybe then, we should spend this hour giving you something to talk about?”

Joe grinned at him, leaning down to kiss him, languid and deep. Nicky reached up to grasp Joe’s hair and hold him there.

Joe’s hand found the side of Nicky’s neck, and then travelled, until his fingers met scar tissue. Joe broke away from the kiss to look at the scar of the bullet wound on Nicky’s shoulder.

“Hey,” Nicky caught his attention softly. Nicky’s hand moved from Joe’s hair so that he could trace his thumb delicately over the scar on the side of Joe's head. It was visible at the moment because both of them had hairstyles that were shaved at the back and sides, and kept a little longer on the top. “You with me?”

Joe turned his head to kiss Nicky’s palm, “Always,” he promised.

Nicky’s fingers dragged slowly across Joe’s clean-shaven cheek. It was strange that for once Joe was the clean-shaven one, and Nicky was the one with a closely-trimmed beard. It was damn good look on Nicky, and Joe often found himself staring, and reaching out to touch.

Joe returned his full attention to giving Nicky a good morning. He took his time opening Nicky up, and fucking him long and slow into the mattress.

Afterwards they lay sprawled on the mattress, Joe still partially collapsed on top of Nicky. Joe did manage to lever himself up enough to pass Nicky his glass of water, though.

“What time is it?” Nicky asked, trailing fingers lazily up and down Joe’s spine.

Joe hummed, content, but glanced at the clock on the other side of the room. “10am,” he said, and was about to close his eyes once more, before realisation struck. “Fuck! They are going to be here in two hours!” and he and Nicky scrambled up, flinging themselves out of bed.

***

“Hmm,” Quynh inspected Nicky’s hair and beard.

“Well?” Nicky asked, “Do you approve?”

“Please,” Quynh clucked her tongue in amusement, “You look like you have stepped out of a fashion catalogue and you know it.” She reached out to pat Joe’s clean-shaven cheek, “You too, baby face.”

Nicky laughed, and reached out to take Quynh and Andy’s bags from Joe. Joe had driven to the airport to collect their guardians, while Nicky had made a start on preparing some lunch.

Andy and Booker followed behind Quynh, so Nicky hugged them both tightly, and then led them through to the kitchen to get them drinks and finish the spread he had laid out for lunch.

It was the first time any of the Old Guard had been to visit the house in Malta since Booker had gifted it to Nicky and Joe, and it was the first time that Nicky and Joe were ‘hosting’ their guardians as ‘guests’. They had invited them out to the house so that they could celebrate Booker’s birthday together.

“I love what you’ve done with it,” Booker squeezed Nicky’s shoulder, looking around proudly as he opted for a glass of orange juice rather than a glass of wine. “You’ve made it your own.”

It was true, Nicky and Joe had been based in Malta for much of the last year, and had filled the place with Joe’s art, and their books, and their VHS tapes – Joe and Nicky had a huge love for the cinema, particularly for action flicks, historical dramas and international indie films. They had refreshed some of the furniture and updated the décor a little, while maintaining the traditional charm of the Maltese house. Nicky was very proud of it, so he was thrilled that Booker approved.

“Wait until you see the computer we’ve just got,” Joe commented, leaning back against the kitchen counter, “You won’t _believe_ it, Booker. We’ll have to keep you guys on top of all the latest technology. It’s inevitable that the internet's going to become the main source of research information. It’s going to make your lives so much easier. It’s been really helpful for our charity work.”

Since Joe and Nicky had first joined the Old Guard, they had held down ‘civilian’ art and tutoring jobs in between missions, but they had also gotten involved in charity work outside of the rescue missions of the Old Guard. They had, in particular, been involved with charities and organisations advocating for LGBT rights and AIDS awareness since 1990. In the year and four months since they had officially left the Old Guard, Nicky and Joe had been able to devote more time to that work, still wanting to help people even if they were no longer in the Old Guard.

“It might make our lives harder in some other ways,” Andy commented, concerned, “If it becomes easier to share and spread photographs or video footage. We wouldn't want our faces on there. Would you help us keep on top of that if it comes to it?”

“Absolutely,” Nicky promised, “Anything to protect our family.”

“Speaking of which,” Joe said, “We wanted to discuss with you the fact that we might have to start introducing you to people as our friends, rather than as our parents.” He gestured at their youthful, beautiful guardians, “I’m turning thirty at the end of the year. You don’t look anywhere near old enough to be my Dad anymore, Book.”

Nicky hoped that Booker would understand that they would have to change their dynamic for public appearance - the Old Guard had been the ones that had made the decision to move on from the house in Sanguinet for the same reason, after all.

He was glad when Booker just grinned lazily from behind his sunglasses, looking like some sun-kissed film star, and said, “Thirty next year? How does it feel, old man?”

Joe rolled his eyes good-naturedly, “I don’t know, Book, it is literally your 226th birthday tomorrow, so you tell me.”

Booker laughed, clapping Joe on the shoulder.

“Does this mean that when we physically look older than fifty that you spritely lot will have to respect your elders?” Nicky grinned.

“Respect your elders?! Spritely?!” Andy protested, holding a hand to her chest with mock offence, “I am 6000 years old! Where’s _my_ goddamn respect?!”

***

31st March 1997  
Paris, France

“No, no,” Quynh disagreed, eyeing Joe and Nicky’s moustaches with distaste, “What are these?”

Joe laughed aloud. “Just trying something different, Quynh.”

“Hmm,” Quynh hummed, unimpressed, as she regarded Joe and Nicky’s latest looks.

Andy smirked. She was pretty sure Joe and Nicky were doing this on purpose; deliberately changing their looks for whenever they next saw Quynh to see her reaction. The current looks were certainly _something_ ; Nicky’s hair was as long as Andy had ever seen it, and the matching moustache made him look a bit like a cowboy in the Western films Booker sometimes watched. Joe’s moustache was more discreet, because he had kept short stubble on his face too. He had kept his curls short too, which Quynh never approved of.

“Now that our appearances have been thoroughly insulted,” Joe said jovially, “How was the journey?”

“It was good,” Andy said, stepping forward to hug him, unsurprised at being picked up and spun around, “We decided to stay at the church.”

“Goussainville?” Nicky confirmed, as he stepped forward to wrap Andy in a hug, “I don’t think we’ve stayed there since the year we met you.”

“You’ll have to come by tomorrow,” Quynh said.

“We’d love to,” Nicky said, stepping back, “We will be able to celebrate how successful Joe’s exhibition has been.”

“Oh stop,” Joe said, always so modest, and Andy smiled at him fondly.

“We have been so looking forward to seeing it," Andy told Joe, "And an exhibition in _Paris_ too! Booker couldn’t believe when he heard, could you Book?”

“I’m so proud,” Booker said. They were such simple words, but Andy saw how much Booker meant them, and how they made Joe light up.

Joe excitedly led them to meet the gallery owner first, introducing Andy, Quynh and Booker as his and Nicky’s ‘closest friends’, before leading them to the main gallery. Joe’s work was being displayed as part of an LGBT event promoting the work of specially selected LGBT artists.

They passed a beautiful portrait of Freddie Mercury; a tribute to the star six years after his passing. Nicky paused in front of it, as Andy suspected Nicky had every time he had passed it in the past week. Nicky had always loved pop and rock music, so had naturally been a big fan of Queen and Freddie Mercury. Booker had taken Nicky and Joe to see Queen perform live several times.

Andy could not help but fondly remember the photos that had been taken of Joe when he had attended a costume party when he and Nicky had both still been at university in 1987. Joe had dressed as Freddie Mercury (the first time he had ever chosen to don a moustache) in the famous outfit Freddie had worn during Queen’s Magic Tour in 1986. The photos had shown how Joe’s long legs had been accentuated by the white trousers with the red and gold stripe up the side, and the yellow military jacket had been beautifully detailed; Andy remembered Joe and Nicky’s friend Sabine had helped put the outfit together. Nicky had been dressed that night as Morten Harket from A’ha’s 1985 music video for ‘Take On Me’, and Sabine had expertly edited his jacket and make-up to actually look like a part of his body was a drawing. According to Joe, Joe hadn’t been able to take his eyes off Nicky the whole night, but the photos of Joe as Freddie Mercury was visual proof that Nicky had been as equally fixated on Joe.

Coincidentally, it was Sabine - who was unsurprisingly already up and coming in the fashion industry of Paris – that had put Joe in contact with the gallery owner for the exhibition. The Old Guard had had to make sure they visited the exhibition on a different night to Sabine, so that Sabine didn’t see them and wonder just why Joe and Nicky’s ‘hot parents’ hadn’t aged a day in the decade since she had last seen them.

Andy was brought back into the room as Joe smiled fondly at Nicky and gently steered him past the portrait of Freddie Mercury, and into the space that had been set aside for Joe’s pieces. At that point, Andy’s attention was wholly on Joe’s work.

“The series is called ‘Old Hearts: A Timeless Romance’,” Joe said, shifting nervously, “What do you think?”

Andy was awed, and Quynh and Booker were equally quiet beside her as they took in the series of masterpieces Joe had painted.

Joe had depicted himself and Nicky through multiple periods of history; two souls constantly drawn together despite what side of history they were on. Joe had clearly used the old influences of the project he had undertaken as a teen to depict the Old Guard has they had appeared through time.

It was like Andy was looking through windows to the past, if Joe and Nicky had been on their immortal journey with them; Nicky and Joe depicted in the Italian Renaissance, the French Revolution, the Golden Age of Piracy, the British Victorian era, the American ‘roaring’ 1920s, the Second World War…

“This one took a bit of persuasion from Nicky,” Joe said guiltily, as Andy came to stop in front of a painting depicting Joe and Nicky battling each other in the First Crusade.

“Hmm,” Nicky agreed, looking at the armour, white fabric and big red cross that his depicted counterpart was wearing, “The wrong side of history.”

“Something I have ended up on a few times,” Andy admitted regretfully, “Not intentionally.”

All the portraits were beautiful. Even in the ones where Joe and Nicky weren’t depicted as being wrapped up in each other in various periods of clothing, and were instead portrayed in conflict fighting on different sides, in different armour or uniforms, there was always an element of passion involved, always. Joe had done a wonderful job of showing that two hearts can connect and love, even when raised to believe different things, fight for different things, fight against each other.

Andy reached out and took Quynh’s hand, looked at the portraits, and remembered a whole history she had actually experienced, witnessed and shared with her own, real immortal love. They had lived through so many of the depicted eras together...though not the Golden Age of Piracy. Andy had made alliances with a number of pirates during that time to join their crews and try to locate Quynh’s iron maiden under the sea. ‘The heart of the ocean’, some of the pirates had started to call the ‘priceless treasure’ ‘Captain Andria’ was so desperate to find.

Quynh, as always, knew what Andy was thinking and squeezed her hand, and turned her mind elsewhere; “Corsets,” Quynh nodded to a depiction of Joe and Nicky in the 1800s, dressed down and wearing male corsets and form-fitting trousers, “You always looked _incredible_ in corsets.”

“So did you,” Andy said. Quynh was petite anyway, and the corsets had just…Andy remembered how speechless she had been the first time she saw Quynh wearing one.

“I prefer us in armour though,” Quynh added, “My warrior queen.”

“Agreed,” Andy said, because combat wear was always _much_ comfier than corsets, “You have always made armour look good,” She nudged her gently, “My warrior queen.”

***

12th July 1998  
Stade de France, Saint-Denis, France

Booker had managed to secure tickets for the five of them to go to the FIFA World Cup 1998 final, because 1998’s World Cup was being hosted by France, and therefore Booker had decided it was compulsory for them to be there. Andy had been unsure at first about the Old Guard attending a televised event, but since they were all going to be wearing football shirts, in a sea of football shirts, she had allowed Booker to get tickets for the final.

Back when Booker had bought the tickets, he had had no idea that France would actually be one of the teams playing in the final.

Joe and Nicky had arrived at the Old Guard safe house in Goussainville at the end of June. Quynh had given far more approval to their new hairstyles than she had to the last four looks in the last year or so (the day Joe had turned up with a Mohawk she had been horrified). Nicky’s hair was still pretty long, but artfully styled, and he had grown a beard back in. Joe had let both his hair and beard grow out a little more, much to Quynh’s delight and relief.

So Joe and Nicky had been staying with them in Goussainville for two weeks, watching the knock-out stages, and the quarter and semi finals. Tunisia hadn’t made it past the group stages, and Italy had been knocked out by France in the quarter-finals (sweet revenge, Booker had joked to Nicky). But that meant they had all been cheering on France in the semi-finals, and had raucously celebrated them beating Croatia 2-1 to get to the final.

Booker had been so excited to have all his family wear French shirts alongside him to support his country, to stand in a sea of French supporters, in the Stade de France itself, to watch France play Brazil in a World Cup final. But nothing had prepared him for the elation of France actually winning 3-0 and claiming their first World Cup title.

“I can’t believe it,” Booker said, awed, surrounded by the thunderous celebration of the French supporters, as Joe and Nicky cheered and hugged and jumped with him.

The Old Guard’s celebration lasted long into the night, so it was lucky that the Old Guard had decided to stay at the safe house in Goussainville, because it meant that their very loud party went unheard in the silence of the abandoned village, and was drowned out by the loud roar of the odd low-flying aeroplane.

***

30th December 1999  
Sanguinet, France

At various points during the year, Booker had found himself thinking back to exactly twenty years ago, and the events of 1979. He remembered that on the day he had arrived in Nice on 24th July, just before he had entered the safe house and met Joe and Nicky for the first time, he had been mourning the fact he had lived so long. Mourning the fact that he had existed in three different centuries; born in the 1700s, entered the 1800s as a mortal man with a wife and children, and seen in the 1900s alone but for the only other two immortals in the whole world besides him. He remembered thinking that he didn’t know if he could stand seeing in the 2000s. Because the 2000s would not just be another century, but a new millennium. That man twenty years ago had been a man of lost hope, drowning in alcohol and grief; feeling like a burden to his immortal sisters. But that man twenty years ago had no idea that just through the door of the safe house he would find a salvation that had, quite frankly, saved him from probably doing something desperately stupid in the hopes of escaping immortality.

Nicky and Joe had called him on the 24th July, to speak to him on the 20th anniversary of their meeting. They had reminisced about that day, and how young they had been - Nicky only 10 years old, and Joe 12. It felt like both a lifetime and a blink of an eye ago, because those twenty years had been some of the best of Booker’s long life.

The Old Guard had not seen much of Nicky and Joe through that year. The Old Guard had had a number of missions, and Joe and Nicky had been busy with their civilian work and their charity work. Joe had been commissioned for a couple of exhibitions since the success of his one in Paris two years before. The one that he had been hosting in Bordeaux over the Christmas period meant that Joe and Nicky had not seen the Old Guard to celebrate Joe’s 33rd birthday. They had decided instead that when the exhibition wrapped up, they would meet the Old Guard at the house in Sanguinet so that they could celebrate New Year’s Eve together, see in the new century and millennium together, and then stay at the house until after Nicky’s 31st birthday on the 3rd of January. Twenty years ago, Booker had dreaded seeing in the year 2000, and now he was so very much looking forward to it, and spending time with his family. How things could so drastically change for an immortal in only the space of twenty years.

The Old Guard arrived at the house in Sanguinet at 3pm in the afternoon. The house was all ready for them, as Joe and Nicky had been commuting to Bordeaux throughout the exhibition’s run. Joe and Nicky planned to arrive home at 7pm, so that they could all have dinner together.

It was like the Old Guard had never left. Booker’s favourite books were still on the shelves, the final art pieces Joe had done for his university course – the portrait of Lykon, the painting of the Old Guard observing the changes of time, and the portrait of Joe and Nicky symbolised as the sun and the moon – were all hung up exactly where they had been left. Booker’s favourite chair was dust-free and clean, but didn’t look like it had been used much in his absence. The beds were all made up. The fridges and cupboards were stocked with food and drink for the next two weeks. 

But then, around 6:50pm, Booker was abruptly hit by some sudden feeling, some eerie instinct, that something was not right. 7pm came and went, and Joe and Nicky hadn’t arrived back. The bad feeling that something was wrong intensified.

“They will have been held up chatting to the gallery owner or something,” Quynh assured him, “Yusuf was going to oversee the artwork getting wrapped up and stored. They probably fell behind schedule.”

“They will be here,” Andy agreed, squeezing Booker’s shoulder.

But another ten minutes passed by and Booker felt anxiety crawling like ants under his skin. He was agitated and couldn’t sit still.

“Something isn’t right,” he demanded, “I can just _feel_ it. Please, please can we drive in Bordeaux’s direction? Even if we pass them on the road and find they got held up, I still need us to go – for them not to have called if they were running late…it’s not like them. Please.”

Andy and Quynh didn’t need any more convincing. They were clearly worried too.

They drove through the fields and forest in the direction of Bordeaux. The roads were quiet, deserted. They had been driving for just over ten minutes when Booker ordered Andy to “Stop! Stop the car!”

Andy slammed on the brakes and Booker threw himself out of the car and ran back to what he thought he had seen through the window.

What he found, was the marks of skidded tyres on the surface of the road, and in the near distance, partially hidden from the road by some trees, was a car that looked dented at all sides, like it had flipped several times. It had landed upright, but was almost unrecognisable in the dark and its condition. Its headlights were still on, and they gave off the only light other than the moonlight as Booker scrambled through the brush and trees towards it. His instinct had already warned him what he would find. He took one look at the car's registration plate and knew, and although he wanted so badly to stop, to drop to his knees and sob, he couldn’t. He couldn’t.

Because they might...they could still be alive...

“Oh god,” Booker groaned out in devastation, forcing himself to stagger the rest of the way to the car, “Dear god, please no.” He reached the car and felt sick at the sight of the twisted metal and broken glass. Terrified by the silence. “Joe?” he called out, panicked, “Nicky?!”

“Book?” he thought he heard his name called weakly, and Booker rushed around to the driver’s side, where the crushed door didn’t need much wrenching to come completely off its hinges.

“Oh. Oh fuck,” he choked at the sight of Joe, bloody and pale and pinned by the steering wheel.

“Book,” Joe sobbed out, his breath coming out short and shallow, “Nic…Nicky isn’t talking to me. He was talking but then…then he stopped. Please, I can’t…I can’t move my head. Please check he’s ok…”

Booker swallowed down the terrified panic at Joe not being able to move his head and grasped Joe’s hand, biting back tears at finding that Joe’s fingers were slick with blood. Booker moved so that he could see past the mangled dashboard and steering wheel that had been shunted forward into Joe. He caught one glimpse of Nicky and nearly doubled over with the pain that punched through him. Because the window next to Nicolò’s head was cracked and bloody. His eyes were open and staring, and he was very clearly dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know. I know. And I'm sorry. I giveth with the longest chapter yet, and I taketh away with possibly one of the cruellest cliffhangers I've ever written. But I'll make up for it. Promise!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Any comments, kudos and bookmarks are so loved and appreciated.
> 
> And again, if you haven't already checked out the fantastic 'watch me beg to never let you go' by BeeKnees, which is a complete and beautiful fill of my original prompt, definitely go read it!


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